A very inappropriate, pornographic image swiftly comes to mind, and I start choking when I aspirate air in too quickly.
“Ignore him,” Syn tells me, her face bright red, but it’s too late.
There is no fucking way I will ever be able to erase that from my mind. How beautiful she would look, naked, on her hands and knees, her flame-red hair fisted in his hand while he?—
“Hike!”
Tristan advances on Hendrix just as Syn dashes past me.
Shit.
I take off, watching how Hendrix hastily throws the football before Tristan gets to him. With a wobbly spin, it arcs over my head, and I make a play to intercept it. So does Syn.
Palming the football one-handed, I curl an arm around her and twist midair as we both plummet to the grass in a heap. The air gets knocked out of me when my back hits the ground, Syn landing on top of me.
Pushing up on her arms, sunlight weaves through her hair and streaks it a burnished gold. Fuck, she’s so beautiful.
“That was impressive. But it’s touch football, not tackle,” she says.
My mind dives right down into the gutter because I want to touch her…everywhere. She sits up and straddles my waist. For the love of God, donotget aroused.
“Foul!” Hendrix shouts.
Tristan groans in exasperation. “How many times do I have to tell you? There are no fouls in football.” He lifts Syn off me and hauls her over his shoulder, much to her delight.
Constantine comes outside, bouncing a fussy Fénix in his arms. “Little man is hungry,” he tells her, then says to me, “Pyotr is here.”
Pushing up on my elbows, my brow furrows. He never just shows up at their house.
“Did you at least invite him inside?” Syn asks as she takes the baby.
Constantine kisses the top of Fénix’s head. “Was I supposed to?”
Syn settles down on the patio lounger and lifts her shirt and bra out of the way. Squirming excitedly, Fénix eagerly latches onto a breast. “Baby, we’re going to need to work on your hospitality skills.”
“I don’t see a problem,” he replies, stroking Fénix’s hair as he suckles.
With effort, I avert my gaze from the tender bonding moment between mother and child. Syn has taken to motherhood with ease, and despite Tristan’s fears, he, Hendrix, and Constantine have been there with her and their newborn son every step of the way. They are proof that you can break the cycle and not grow up to be like the parents who raised you. I wish Aleksei had gotten that chance.
Heading through the kitchen to the foyer, I find Pyotr standing on the front porch, wearing a hard scowl.
“What’s going on?”
Pulling his hands from his pockets, he checks behind me to make sure we’re alone and lowers his voice. “Sorry to show up unannounced, but I felt it was better to tell you in person than over the phone.”
“Okay,” I reply, unnerved by his gravitas.
Pulling me to the side, his voice goes even quieter. “Dad found out who was responsible.”
Constantine has been doing his own search with no luck. So have I. Neither of us coming up with good leads. It’s been driving me crazy.
“Tell me.” So I can end that motherfucker’s life.
Behind the anger in Pyotr’s eyes is apprehension. “Tristan wasn’t the target, Aleks. You were. Viktor Androv green-lit the hit.”
I absorb that information, trying to stay objective, but it’s an impossible endeavor. Viktor had made threats right after we killed Anatoly, but nothing ever came of them. Until now. I know better than anyone how patient revenge can be. If he’s coming after me, Pyotr is in danger, too. I’m just the easier target.
Guilt immediately comes crashing in. It’s my fault Tristan got hurt. I can’t let him, or Dierdre, or Syn become casualties in a war they were never a part of to begin with.
