He means Ruslan Kholodov. He’s hunting us.
I can sense a clock ticking down. More like a bomb that’ll destroy everyone I love.
“What do you think he’ll do when he finds us?”
Sire shrugs, nonchalantly, but it’s bullshit. He cares. He remembers the man more than any of us. “Same thing we’d do. Deadly vengeance. But his is evil. Women and children: he doesn’t care. He’ll hurt anyone to get what he wants, and he wantsus. He wants his sons back, and he wants Mom. Dead or alive.”
My empty stomach twists. “So, you’re saying, back off. Leave Alena alone, and maybe he’ll never know about her and leave her alone?”
“No.” He steps back. “I’m saying do it right and give it time. Make sure Alena’s always guarded and is head over fucking heels for you, then let me help you talk to Nash.” He smirks. “I got a bulletproof vest in my closet.”
“Not helping.” I sag against his countertop.
“Not happening today.” He lowers his inked face. “You’re not telling Nash about Alena when I’ve finally convinced him to let the cousins back you up.”
I glance at the time on the microwave. “When will they get here?”
Sire turns to his phone, taps it, and reads a text. “Axel’s with ’em and parking outside.”
“Is Nash with them?”
“No, he’s with Mom. They’re at his place, squeezing Alena for more intel on that Sasha woman.” He glances up, his brows knitted. “You really think she’s an omen or something?”
“Can’t describe it, man. Except I was looking in a mirror and seeing her hell.” I shake my head, too many feelings tumbling through me. “Nash and Mom need to be careful. If they ask too many questions about Sasha, Alena will figure out what we do.”
Sire nods, processing. I swear there’s also a dark cloud looming over him as I sip coffee, my stomach souring.
Lying to Alena makes me sick. The closer I get to her, the more I can’t do it. I want to be honest with her. The truth scratches under my skin, and I need relief.
I need to be me.
Minutes later, it sounds like a slow herd of elephants trudging up the wooden stairs to Sire’s historic penthouse.
Axel strolls through Sire’s door, followed by Tweedle-deadly, Tweedle-dangerous, and Tweedle-destructive.
Bishop. Remi. Wilder.
They’re bikers, brewers, professional hitmen, and now my backup when I can’t watch Alena twenty-four seven.
Wilder goes straight to Sire’s refrigerator, yanking it open, then pulling back at the sight of chicken and salad. “The fuck, man?” He balks. “Yard bird and grass clippings? You got a religion against sugar now?”
Those two go back to juvie, where they met, and Sire shanked Wilder for stealing his cherry pie.
Remi stands by the door, his massive arms crossed. He’s a man of few words. Not sure if it’s the same for his IQ.
Bishop’s the only one who greets us like a gentleman, shaking our hands. A sly, slayer move. “Excuse my cousin. He acts like he was raised in a barn.”
“Cuz we were.” Wilder chomps on salad greens.
“We’re renting the cabin above yours.” Bishop goes straight to business, telling me, “We bought fishing poles to blend in and?—”
“Don’t ride your hogs up the mountain.” I mean serious business. “We’ll hear you coming miles away, and she’ll notice you.”
“So lemme get this straight.” Wilder shoves more spring mix in his mouth. “We’re watching a woman who’s a forest ranger. But she’s also your secret Mafia princess who doesn’t know there’s a price on her head?”
Axel coolly seethes, “We’renotin the Mafia.”
“Pft.” It’s all Remi says.
