A Dom is Forever (Masters and Mercenaries #3)
Lexi Blake
Prologue
Dublin, Ireland
Liam opened his eyes slowly, praying the world was actually coming to some sort of violent end. The ground beneath him didn’t seem quite solid. It was moving, spinning, and along with it went his stomach.
He groaned. No apocalypse. Just a bloody fucking hangover to end all hangovers. He’d gotten pissed the night before. Little flashes came back. He and Rory in the pub. They weren’t going to have more than a pint. How had everything gotten away from him?
Liam sat up, his head pounding. Early morning light poured through the small window above him. Early morning or late afternoon? He forced his eyes to focus on the completely foreign room.
Feminine colors and frills dominated. He’d gotten laid? Fuck. He should remember that. He turned slightly. Yep. He wasn’t alone in bed. Blonde hair. Nice legs, from what he could tell. She seemed to be a stomach sleeper.
He scrubbed a hand across his face. Maybe he should just sneak out. Where the hell was his brother?
His tongue felt thick in his mouth. How the fuck much did he drink last night? He hadn’t intended to drink more than his pint and have some roast and potatoes.
Fog clouded his head. Something was wrong. He wouldn’t have gotten pissed during a mission. Sure the mission was almost over, but he still had to meet with the handler and then on to the really dangerous portion. Not that getting in good with the Russian mafia hadn’t been dangerous, but this arms dealer they were meeting represented the end of the game. They would take down the mysterious arms dealer and hand back the bearer bonds. God only knew where all that mob money would go from there. MI6 most likely. His mother would turn over in her grave. Pure IRA, she was, but he was a man of the new world, and that included working with the bloody Brits. They paid well, and the truth was their fates were somewhat tied together in this new freaking world. Their economies were joined at the hip. The world was a smaller place than when his mother had cursed the Brits.
He stretched, trying not to wake the woman next to him—the girl he’d apparently fucked without having a single memory of it. He got to his very wobbly feet and stopped, forcing himself to focus on her. He should remember something about her. Anything. A hint of a smile. A flirtatious word.
Nothing.
Where was the pack with the bonds? Rory had them last. His head throbbed. They needed those bonds. They were the proof that they came from Leonov. The arms dealer they had been trying to locate would only accept the bonds and no other payment. They were screwed if someone had taken them. The arms dealer would disappear, and he’d peddle his uranium elsewhere.
Dirty bombs. It’s what that fucker Leonov had been trying to put together for his clients. Leonov was an arms dealer himself, but he was small-time trying to move into the Middle East. He and Rory had spent a year of their lives chasing this guy and finally they had brokered the deal. G2, MI6, and very likely the CIA, had a plan to use the bonds Liam and Rory had taken off the Russian mobster to complete the deal and learn the name of the arms dealer who offered the uranium.
And that was above his fucking pay grade, as his American friend Ian would say. He just needed to finish the job and get home for some well-deserved R&R. He had six weeks coming to him. Six weeks to rest and eat and fuck and get rat-arsed drunk. Not necessarily in that order.
He felt like a dirty bomb had gone off in his bloody brain.
He sighed. He should at least wake her up and say good-bye. Hell, maybe she could make him a spot of breakfast. He could use some sausage. Might settle his rolling gut.
And she could tell him where the fuck Rory was.
He leaned over and touched her shoulder.
Cold skin met his touch. So much colder than a simple chill. With dawning horror, he rolled her over. Deep blue lines surrounded her throat, slender tendrils that marked the place where her oxygen had been cut off. She’d been strangled and not by meaty, masculine hands. The bruising was too perfect. Rope, he suspected.
Then he saw it. A line of rope likely thirty feet in length because that’s how he bought it. Jute. The type he used in Shibari.
He hadn’t killed that girl. He would never harm a submissive. He wouldn’t play when he was drunk. Panic started to overwhelm him. He picked up the rope. It had to be his. The young woman wouldn’t just have jute lying around. It had to have come from his pack.