Careful of this guy, Turner’s voice from memory suddenly slammed into his head. He does not fuck around when he gets hold of someone. He’s pissed and done with you, before you know it, you got a bullet in your brain. He needs somethin’ from you or he feels like playin’, he likes to burn.

To burn.

To fucking burn.

Nick stared at the door not seeing it.

He also didn’t see Turner in his memory during one of the many briefings he’d had with Nick and Hettie.

He didn’t even see the photos in that file of Shade and Harkin’s handiwork on others.

No.

Nick stared at the door seeing the same thing he saw in those photos but on Olivia.

The pink, melted mess of scars at the small of Olivia’s back and her upper hips.

He likes to burn.

Christ, was that some terrible accident she’d endured?

Or had her father burned her?

They knew nothing about her. No one did. If she didn’t exist out in the open, she’d be Deacon before he’d met his Cassidy.

She’d be a ghost.

But she did exist out in the open. She drove to work. She drove home. She went out shopping. She had her nails done. She took a Pilates class. She went to dinner or lunch with her mother. Also with her sister. She went to the club. She occasionally caught a film, but always by herself. She also didn’t hesitate to go to dinner by herself. Her sister visited her house. She visited her sister’s. He’d seen her with Gill Harkin. Tom Leary. Eli Cook. Other members of her crew.

But never her father.

Nick had been surveilling her on and off for four years and they’d kept tabs on her before, when he was working with Hettie and Turner.

He’d never seen Olivia with her father.

Not once.

He’d also never seen her smile.

Not at lunch with her mother, occasions that she hid (poorly) were obligatory. There was no love between those two. There was nothing between those two.

Not even when she was with her sister, someone it appeared she held some affection for (if not much, or if it was, she wasn’t overt about it).

No smiles.

Definitely no laughs.

Nothing.

Made of stone.

But not made of stone.

She didn’t like smartass men or sarcasm, hugged without her arms, snuggled, was offended he’d think she had an STD, used words like “ill-suited,” was absolutely going to submit to him and get off on it, and she was capable of making a joke about him talking to the ceiling.

And she’d smiled into his throat.

And against his lips.

He’d felt it.

He’d felt them all.

Last, she’d been burned.

Badly.