I laugh and lean back, crossing my arms. “Wow. So now I’m a prisoner.”
“No. I just don’t have time to chase you through the woods.”
Heat crawls up my neck, straight into my cheeks. My imagination betrays me instantly, and the thought makes my stomach flip. Fuck, that would be hot.
He straightens. Does he feel it, too?
“Have a nice day at work, handsome.” I give him a small wave, playful on the surface, reckless underneath.
He just blinks at me, and my breath stutters before I can stop it.
Something dark and volatile flashes through his eyes before his expression hardens, like he’s furious with himself for noticing at all. He steps back, then takes another, rebuilding his armor piece by piece.
“Eat your breakfast,” he says, all business now. “Text Hallie when you’re ready. I’ll have someone escort you if you leave the property.”
“Drago—”
“No.” His interruption is gentle but final. “Not today.”
He grabs his keys from the counter and pauses at the doorway, his back to me. And when he turns, he has that glint in his eyes.
“Try not to look at me like that. It makes forgetting my place difficult.”
Then he’s gone. The door closes behind him with a soft click that lands like a bruise.
I stand there long after, heart pounding, anger and longing twisted together so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
And the worst part isn’t that he walked away.
It’s that I don’t want him to remember his place at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Drago
“Nice,” Lev mutters as we’re greeted by three severed heads laid out on the table.
I nudge him hard in the ribs. There’s nothing amusing about this, and the Quinns won’t find humor in it either. Neither do I. This isn’t bravado. It’s a message.
Enzo is typing furiously on his phone, shoulders tight, not even registering our arrival. Declan stands rigid beside the table, fury carved into his face.
“Who are they?” I ask, nodding toward the heads.
“Some of ours,” Declan replies grimly. “Lower ranks. We sent them into Ohio to scope out leads, and this is how they’ve returned.”
My jaw tightens. “How many did we send?”
“Ten,” Conan answers.
I do the math automatically. “So seven survived. Not too bad.”
Declan nods once. “I’d prefer no fuckin’ heads on my table, Drago.”
“Well, when we go to them, we leave none of them alive. This is war. This happens.”
That’s when Enzo finally looks up, his expression dark and calculating. This is the worst possible timing to drop what I’m about to say, which usually means it’s the only time to do it.
“I have something else you need to know,” I say, my eyes locking on Enzo. “And you’ll want to be in on this.”
