HANS: Alliance Series Book Four(12)

Mostly because I can’t get the sight of her bent over in those fucking shorts out of my mind. Probably doesn’t help that I’ve watched the video of her doing just that two dozen times. And it definitely doesn’t help that I’m severely lacking in sleep after the last couple days.

I keep my eyes firmly on my own mailbox, not sparing a glance at the box across the street.

There’s more mail in mine than I expected, but half is probably garbage.

With the pile tucked under one arm, I walk through my garage and into the kitchen.

The cans in the bottom of my grocery bag clunk against the counter when I set it down, but there’s nothing cold in the bag, so I ignore it and turn my attention to the mail.

I sort out the typical junk mail and find one flyer for new shingles that came from my man with connections to Italy, so I set that to the side. He’s old school and doesn’t like to use phones, but his information is usually good, so I don’t mind the Cold War approach. It’ll give me something to do tonight as I sort out the coded message.

The last item is a plain brown envelope with something thick inside.

I lift it, ready to take it to my safe room to check it for explosives, when I see it’s addressed to Resident of 1304.

This is Cassandra’s mail.

I pause.

This isn’t mine.

I shouldn’t…

My fingers are already pulling the little plastic thread to rip open the envelope.

I know I shouldn’t, but this is for her safety. The packaging is suspicious. The address is not personalized. The contents…

I tilt the large envelope, and a book slides out.

It’s square, maybe seven by seven inches, with a hardcover covered in a soft black fabric.

I tilt it in the light coming through the window, causing the silver lettering across the cover to shine.

Lust Shots.

And my blood thickens with an emotion I can’t pinpoint.

Anger? Jealousy?

I open the book, and my stomach clenches.

Definitely jealousy.

It’s Cassandra. On her knees. On a bed that isn’t hers. And the gauzy little nightgown she’s wearing is pretty much see-through.

I turn the page.

She’s on her back, her head hanging off the foot of the bed, her arms draped down toward the ground, her dark curls pooling between her hands. She’s not looking at the camera in this one; she’s looking to the side. And she’s wearing⁠— I grip the book tighter, and the spine creaks.

She’s in a bra and panties. That’s it.

The angle of the shot highlights her giant tits, mounded on her chest, held in place by black lace and underwires.

I turn the page.

She’s standing in front of a full-length mirror. The shot is from behind, and she’s still just in her underwear. This one is in black and white. And…

My breaths are coming faster.

My chest rises and falls as if I’m fighting for my life.

I turn the page.

Again.

Again.

All her. All my Cassandra. Spread out like a fucking centerfold.

For someone else.

My vision tints an ugly shade of green, and I storm out of my house, book in hand.





CHAPTER 11





Cassie





When the popping starts to slow, I hit the button to stop the microwave and yank the door open.

Popcorn steam plumes out, but I fan it away and lift the bag by the corner.

It’s Friday. I’ve logged off from work for the day. I’ve put my hair up and I’ve got my not-for-public little cotton shorts on, along with the worn T-shirt I got at the Grand Canyon years ago. This is my definition of comfort, and my plans consist of becoming one with the couch while I catch up on the newest season of my favorite true crime series. Because what’s more relaxing than murder?

Pinching the bag tight so I don’t drop it, I carry it over to the dining table, where I have my big red plastic bowl ready.

I’ve burned myself more than once opening these papery bags, so I carefully grab opposite corners with my fingertips and start to pull gently.

Then a loud pounding on the front door startles me so badly I jump and accidentally rip the bag in two.

Popcorn showers around me.

Dropping my grip with one hand, I slap my palm over my heart.

“What the hell?”

I stand for a second, wondering if I really heard someone knocking, when it sounds again.

I set the bag on the table amid the scattered popcorn and head toward the door.

“Cassandra!” My name booms through the closed door.

Wait.

Is that…?

A fist pounds against the wood again, and it shakes in its frame.

“Cassandra, open the door.”

My heart keeps galloping but for a new reason.

Is that Hans?

And did he call me Cassandra?

Popcorn crunches under my slippers as I hurry to the door.





CHAPTER 12





Hans





If I could force myself to let go of the book, I’d pick her lock and let myself in.

But I won’t let go.

“Cassandra,” I bellow a third time.

The deadbolt clicks, and the handle turns, and I step through the door as Cassandra opens it.