He’s standing there, breath fogging in the glow of a single overhead bulb. No more running.
“Jack.” I slow, palms up. “It’s me.”
His expression softens into… relief? Guilt? It’s hard to read in the colored haze. I take one cautious step. Another. And then he pulls a gun from his jacket pocket. The barrel rises, slick and black.
“Jack, no!” I lunge but the muzzle flashes before I reach him.
BANG.
I shoot upright in bed, lungs dragging air like I’ve been underwater. The room is dark except for the blinking router light beneath the TV. Sheets tangle around my legs, sweat cools on my spine. Just a dream, it was only a dream. I press shaky fingers to my racing pulse, breathing in and out until the shadows stop spinning.
The space beside me is empty, and stupidly I wish Vlad were here—solid, warm and armed. I swing my feet to the floor, and pad toward the kitchen for water. The apartment is silent but for the hum of the refrigerator. I fumble for the switch, bright light flooding the sleek counters, polished and impersonal. I grab a glass, fill it, gulp twice.
“Hey, sis.”
The voice behind me scrapes every nerve raw. I spin, and the glass slips from my hand and shatters, water splashing across my bare feet.
Jack sits at the little breakfast table, the same bomber jacket slung over the back of his chair. A half-smile tugs his mouth, but his eyes are restless.
This is no nightmare. He’s here—real, breathing, ten feet away.
“Miss me?” he asks, casual as an afternoon phone call.
My throat locks. All I can do is stare at the brother who vanished, the brother who just shot me in a dream, now sitting in my supposedly secure apartment like he owns the night.
Jack tips the chair forward and plants his elbows on the table, like this is any random midnight catch up. I step over the broken glass, pulse banging in my temples.
“Jack—”
“It’s me.” He grins and shrugs. “In the flesh. How you been, Teresa?”
Where do I even begin? I stammer, trying to figure out where to start. “Why are you here? Was that really you at Bryant Park?”
He grins. “Guilty. I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me, but you’re as observant as ever.”
“You ran.”
“Had to,” he says, shrugging again. “Crowds, security cams, Vlad’s goons probably lurking nearby. Didn’t want to bring trouble to your doorstep.”
“How did you know I was here?”
Jack chuckles then taps his forehead. “I keep tabs, sis. Your real place is in Queens. I saw it on Zillow. Quite a downgrade from this.”
“How did you get in here?”
He looks away.
“You said you didn’t want to bring trouble. What kind of trouble, Jack?”
He exhales dramatically. “I guess it’s time you knew. After the gala, all those years ago, when Maxim… I went dark. I had to. I had no freaking idea if whoever killed Maxim had me in their crosshairs too, if they were going to come back to finish what they’d started.”
“You left me behind. Alone.”
“Listen, I didn’t say I made the right call. I panicked. Left the country, went on a bit of a year-long bender. OK, maybe a few years. Burned through what little bit of money from Mom and Dad I had left. But I’m clean now, checked into GA, then NA. Eleven months sober next week.” He flashes jazz hands. “Redemption arc, baby.”
“Congratulations,” I reply flatly. “Where does stalking me fit into all that recovery?”
“Hey, I wanted to see my sister.” His jaw tightens, momentarily sincere. “Not to mention that Aleksander Volkov has a kill order on both of us. Heard it through the grapevine. Guess he still thinks we’re the ones behind what happened to Maxim.”
