“Twenty … five?”

“Is that a fucking question?”

“No …?”

“Then why do you keep putting question marks after your answers?”

Her generation was going to run this country one day. No fucking wonder I had a fake Swedish passport, just in case. Say hello to Ludvig fucking Nilsson.

She blinked slowly, like this was a test. I was half sure she was illiterate.

“Show me your ID.” I opened my palm, stretching my arm in her direction.

“This is ridiculous.” She laughed, her neck and ears turning pink. “I’m legal! Everyone gets carded here.”

Not everyone. Aisling didn’t on Halloween, and now my dick wanted a subscription card to her pussy.

Never mind that I fired the bastard who let Aisling in the following day.

“You have five seconds before I blacklist you,” I said dryly.

“From the club?” She sucked in a breath.

“From the city,” I corrected. “Your ID, Dani.”

She rummaged through her knockoff Chanel purse with a huff, producing her driver’s license and slapping it over my palm. I lit a cigarette and sat back, rubbing my forehead as I studied it.

Twenty-two.

Danielle Rondiski was twenty-two.

A practical baby in comparison to me.

Still, legal enough to drink, to fuck, and to be here.

She was also a natural brunette with pasty white skin when that photo was taken but had since graduated from the Bimbo Academy and morphed into what was standing in front of me right now, an inflatable version of Charlotte McKinney.

I whipped the card back at her. “Get out.”

“Mr. Brennan …”

“Out.”

“Age is just a number.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” I tried—and failed—to find the conversation frustrating. Truth was, I was bored. So far from the realms of any other emotion, I couldn’t muster it if I tried.

I wasn’t annoyed. I was horny for something I couldn’t get my hands on, and the boring words coming out of her mouth were killing my erection.

“If age is just a number, then temperature is just a number, too. And money. And cancerous cells. And war casualties. Numbers are everything. Numbers are what separates life from death. Numbers run this world. There’s no just about them. Now get the fuck out.”

After sending Dani on her way with my Rain Man speech, and coming to terms with the fact my dick and I were both going to bed lonely tonight, I got into my car and drove to my apartment. My instincts told me the clusterfuck of today was in full swing and to expect the worst.

My instincts were never wrong.

Because Aisling fucking Fitzpatrick was waiting at my door.

A reward—or a punishment—from Karma?

Her back was pressed against the wood, sitting cross-legged, head bent down, the cool glow of her phone illuminating the planes of her face. She looked up as soon as I stepped out of the elevator, scrambling to her feet, smoothing her black, conservative dress over her curves. Her coat was folded and rested on her forearm neatly.

“I ought to kill you.” I pushed past her callously, punching the code to my door and opening it without making a move inside.

“That wouldn’t be out of character for you,” she murmured from behind me. “What didn’t I do this time?”

“You cockblocked me.”

“I wasn’t even anywhere near you all day!” she protested, the delight in her voice giving her a cheery lilt.

“You didn’t have to be. The PTSD of fucking you put me off the whole concept for life. Congratulations.”

“That’s why you had to finger me again, right? Just to make sure it really was that horrible the first time,” she sassed back.

“I fingered you to deny you an orgasm, not because I wanted you,” I replied drily.

“You really know how to woo a girl. No wonder I was obsessed with you.”

“Was?” I turned around to shoot her a dark smile, my hand on the door handle. “Last I checked, you are still running after me like a puppy and even took it to the next level and are now showing up at my place, creeper-style.”

“You show up at my place all the time, too. I don’t call you a creeper.”

“That’s different. I work with your father. I cannot escape the sight of you, no matter how much I want to.”

I was really on a roll tonight. All I needed was red-tipped horns and to sacrifice a baby or two to complete my transformation into Lucifer.

“Where have you been?” She changed the subject, refusing to be offended and or leave my fucking building.

Now I did feel something.

I felt ready to strangle her.

“Allow me to answer you with your favorite goddamn expression: none of your business. How did you find my address? Do not say none of your business,” I warned.

“Google.”

“Don’t lie to me.” I turned to face her, curling my fingers over her delicate neck and giving it a soft squeeze just to scare her. Her throat bobbed with a swallow, but she didn’t back down.

I misjudged her all those years and hated myself for judging a book by its cover. Inside that lacey and elegant spine teemed chaos.

“Don’t ask tough questions,” she snapped back.

“My address is untraceable.”

“Well, Batman, I think both of us know that isn’t true.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you remove your fingers from my neck? I’d hate to traumatize you further with skin-to-skin contact.”

Only a handful of people knew where I lived, and not even Cillian, Devon, or my soldiers were among them. I was a notoriously private person. Came with the territory of doing what I did for a living. The only people who had my address were Troy, Sparrow, and Sailor.

Sailor.

My traistor (traitor sister) must’ve talked to Sparrow after I left, put two and two together, and spontaneously decided to butt into my shit.

My cat and mouse game with Aisling was starting to become a multiplayer game, spinning out of control, and it was time to put a stop to it once and for all.

I could confront her about what I’d found out today, tell her I broke into the clinic, press for more answers, but it would be useless. She looked distraught, her onyx hair plastered to her temples, her eyes shiny with tears. She would only go on the defense, and I hated fucking liars. They reminded me of my biological mother.

I removed my hand from her throat.

“Look, can I come in?” She rubbed at the column of her neck, her posture slackening all of a sudden, like a deflated balloon. It dawned on me my not wanting to fuck Dani had nothing to do with her age or ability to bore me to the point of a clinical coma and everything to do with Nix.

God-fucking-dammit.

“No,” I said flatly.

“I really need to talk to someone.”

“I suggest you turn to a person who cares.”

“You don’t care about me?” she asked, surprise and hurt marring her voice. Was she asleep the last fucking decade? Did I care about anyone, myself included? No. Troy, Sparrow, and bigmouthed Sailor were the exception. I supposed I could toss in Rooney and Xander now, too. Obviously, they had the advantage of not being able to talk fluently and therefore were in low danger of pissing me off.