Eva Grayson watched the exchange with interest. So did her friend Cassidy. Sophia Deveraux had already retreated to the back of the Pork Pit to start closing up the restaurant for the night.

Owen Grayson stared at me a moment more before turning to his sister. “If nothing else, tonight has proven my point about Southtown. From now on, someone will be with you during school hours.”

Eva rolled her eyes again. Looked like something she did a lot when her big brother was around. “No. No more bodyguards. I’m nineteen years old, Owen. I’m in college. I can take care of myself.”

“Like you did tonight?” he replied.

“Tonight was a freak event, and you know it,” she retorted.

“I’m not going to let you use it as an excuse. Besides, I was perfectly safe the whole time.”

“That bruise on your cheek tells me otherwise.”

Owen glowered at his sister, but the hostile gaze slid off her like water. Looked like something she ignored a lot. Instead, Eva gave him a calm, calculating look.

“You want me to have a bodyguard? Then hire her.”

The girl stabbed her finger at me. “Because she took out a Fire elemental like it was nothing. And she cooks.”

Owen’s pale eyes swept over my body. Probably wondering how I’d had the strength, balls, or dumb luck to do that.

I’d taken a lot of dirty jobs in my time, but be a bodyguard to a know-it-all college girl? I might have retired from being an assassin, but I hadn’t gone insane. “Sorry. My dance card’s already full.”

Owen nodded. “Job offer notwithstanding, you saved my sister’s life. I owe you. Name your price.”

My turn to roll my eyes. “I don’t want your money, and I don’t need it.”

His violet gaze flicked around the restaurant, taking in the faded pig tracks on the floor and the well-worn booths, chairs, and tables. Disbelief filled his features, but he was enough of a Southern gentleman not to call me a liar to my face. Little did he know I was telling the truth. I’d salted away a lot of money—a lot of money—from my assassin jobs over the years, and Fletcher had left me an exceptionally healthy bequest in his will. I could hemorrhage C-notes for years, decades even, and it wouldn’t hurt a bit.

But instead of offering his money to me again, Owen reached into his suit and drew out a small white card. I took it from him. Along with his name and a cell phone number, a hammer was embossed in silver foil on the card. Grayson’s rune. A large, heavy hammer, symbolizing strength, power, hard work.

“If you ever need anything, please, don’t hesitate to call, day or night,” he said.