I focus on the vegetable in my hand, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. “I guess I am just not his type because, news flash, he hasn’t touched me since stealing me,” I say to the cutting board. Shit. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“That’s not—” Drake runs a hand through his silver hair and sighs. “That’s not what I meant. Rafael is... complicated. The fact that he hasn't touched you isn't because he doesn’t want to. Trust me on that.”
I'm explaining the finer points of making a proper roux, but all Drake does is study me for a beat, then pulls out his phone and types something I cannot see.
“Come on.” He jerks his head toward the elevator. “You said you didn’t have all your ingredients, right?”
“Right. I need milk. Heavy cream. And maybe something for dessert?”
Drake's smile returns, easy and charming. “Good. We can pick up what you need and I also know a place with cupcakes that will change your religion. Let’s go, baby girl.”
The prospect of leaving the penthouse, even for something as mundane as grocery shopping, fills me with a relief that borders on pathetic. I try not to feel like a prisoner being granted yard time and go to grab my purse, but remember I have nothing. I spy the phone Rafael left me, but opt to leave it since thisskirt has no pockets. Drake seems to notice all my mental speedbumps I’m hitting, but doesn’t say anything. He only follows me to the elevator.
The summer air is thick and humid, carrying the smell of exhaust and hot pavement and a thousand different lives being lived all around me. I've never appreciated fresh air more than I do in this moment, surrounded by normal people doing normal things, blissfully unaware of the mafia wars and forced marriages and desperate wishes that have consumed my existence.
I take it all in as Drake drives us to a market on the near north side, a charming little place with overflowing produce bins and a bakery counter visible through the front window.
We are out of the car and moving toward the entrance when the first shot rings out.
The driver's side mirror shatters in a spray of glass and metal that sounds like a bomb detonating beside my ear.
Drake has his arm around my waist and is dragging me behind his parked car, his body covering mine as more gunfire erupts around us. He pushes me against the frame of the car and puts his body over mine as the second and third shots punch through the windshield. As soon as it goes silent I dare a glance. And sure enough, a web of cracks spiderwebbing across the glass with two holes where I should be sitting.
“For fuck’s sake, man. Stay down, damn it! You get killed, Rafael will cut my balls off.” His voice is sharp, commanding, and nothing like the easy charm he’s shown me all day.
Glass shatters somewhere above us, and I hear screaming—other shoppers, I realize, innocent people caught in whatever hell has followed me out of Rafael's penthouse. Drake pulls a gun from somewhere beneath his jacket and returns fire, the recoil jerking his arm with each shot. And then his hand is around my arm hauling me across the console and out the passenger door.
"We need to move." He grabs my hand and pulls me into a crouch, his eyes scanning the chaos around us. “On my count, we run for the store. Don't stop, don't look back, just run. Understand?” He pulls out his phone and shoots a text off before putting it back in his pocket.
“Ready?”
I nod, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“One. Two. Three—go!”
My sandals hit pavement and we are running, which isn’t easy in a skirt that keeps tangling around my legs. We sprint across the parking lot, bullets pinging off the asphalt. Drake keeps his body between me and the direction the shots came from, one arm wrapped around my waist like a vice as we crash through the market entrance.
Customers scream and scatter as we barrel through displays of summer fruit, sending peaches and nectarines rolling across the floor in a cascade of deceptively cheerful colors.
More shots crack behind us, close enough that I feel the displaced air against my neck.
Drake shoves me behind a shelving unit stacked with canned goods before spinning to return fire. The percussive blasts of hisweapon echo through the market aisles like thunder stripped of everything but survival.
“Careful with the people,” I warn. But from the looks of it, I’m worried for nothing because he has perfect aim. Two men with murder written all over their faces drop dead the next second in the entrance of the market.
My heart hammers hard enough to crack bone. I press my back against the metal shelving and try to breathe while gunfire tears through the store.
“This way. Through the back. There’s a loading dock exit.” He grabs me and we weave through aisles of canned goods and breakfast cereal, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead as more shots echo through the building. We pass shoppers flat on the floor. My lungs burn and my legs ache but I don't stop, can't stop, not when Drake's grip on my hand is the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely. The back exit pours golden afternoon light and when we burst through it, a car is already waiting.
The loading dock door bursts open before we reach it, and I nearly scream before I recognize the man standing in the doorway—tall, dirty blond, with ice-colored eyes that sweep over us with clinical efficiency. He’s another one of Rafael’s brothers, one I‘ve only briefly encountered and then nada. He and Drake were present the day Rafael showed up at my wedding.
“Get in!”
I stare at him, chest heaving, but Drake doesn’t seem to have the same breathing problem I have.
“Rowan,” Drake pulls me through the door and into the blinding sunlight of the loading area. “Took you fucking long enough. I nearly got my ass used for target practice.”
"I was three blocks away when you triggered the alert." Rowan's gaze lands on me, assessing. "You're unharmed?"
