I was torn between the desperate urge to run and the equally desperate craving to stay. Running meant being alone again, looking over my shoulder, never sleeping through the night. Staying meant putting Hail in danger, but it also meant not facing this nightmare by myself.
“They’re not ordinary criminals,” I said quietly. “They’re organized, well-funded, and they have resources I can’t even imagine. If they think you’re helping me, they’ll?—”
“They’ll learn what happens when someone threatens my mate.”
The possessive way he said “my mate” sent heat through me. This connection between us was still new, yet it felt ancient and familiar at the same time. Part of me wanted to give into it completely, to trust in something that felt bigger than both of us. But another part, the survivor who’d clawed her way through the past few years, told me attachment was another weapon they could use against me.
“Your family,” I said. “Your brothers, their mates. I can’t put them all at risk.”
“My brothers would be insulted if we didn’t ask for help.” Hail’s mouth quirked up in a small smile. “And their mates are tough and de-de-determined. Dungar said it already, but I’ll name it too. This isn’t your bat-battle. It’sours. You’re family.”
That almost broke me. No longer alone. What did that feel like?
I studied his face, seeing nothing but sincerity there. No doubt, no hesitation, just solid determination to keep me safe. “What if I bring them to your door?”
“Then we’ll be r-r-ready for them.”
“You can’t fight the entire syndicate with pottery tools and good intentions.”
That got a genuine laugh out of him. “You’d be surprised what orcs can do when pr-pr-properly motivated. And we have more than pottery tools.”
Before I could ask what he meant by that, footsteps came from the stairwell. All three of us tensed, Tressa’s ears pricking forward as she focused on the sound.
Greel appeared at the top of the stairs, his expression grim. “Hail. Allie.” He nodded to us both. “Strangers were asking questions downstairs. Thought you should know.”
My blood turned to ice. “What kind of questions?”
“About a woman matching your description. They claimed to be looking for a lost family member.” Greel’s dark eyes met mine. “But they didn’t feel like family.”
They’d found me. The cycle of discovery, destruction, and desperate flight was beginning again.
“Where are they now?” Hail asked, moving closer to me.
“Gone. I think they’ll be back.”
I closed my eyes, fighting the despair crashing over me.
They were here. In Lonesome Creek. Asking about me. It was only a matter of time before they connected me to the pottery barn and Hail.
“I have to leave,” I whispered. “Tonight.”
“No.” Hail sent a glare around the hall as if they were here and he was armed with a sword, ready to slice off their heads. “You’re coming home with me, and we’re go-going to figure this out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out.” The words exploded out of me, months of fear and frustration boiling over. “They want something they think I have, and they won’t stop until they get it. They’ll hurt anyone who gets in their way.”
“What do they want?” Greel asked, coming closer.
I looked between the two brothers, seeing the protective stance they’d both taken. These people were willing to fight for me, and they didn’t even know what they were up against. That wasn’t fair.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “My father was involved with some bad people before he died. They think he left me a bunch of paintings, but I swear I don’t know where they are. They weren’t in my dad’s things.”
“Your father was a criminal?” Hail asked.
“An art forger.” The words felt like glass in my throat.
The irony was, I’d grown up surrounded by gorgeous paintings, sculptures, and artifacts from ancient civilizations. I’d learned to mix pigments before I could write my name, had studied brushstrokes and canvas preparation at my father’s side. He’d given me an eye for beauty and technical skill I’d used to create with my own hands. That gift had been his downfall, and now it was mine. Everything we’d shared was tainted by the knowledge that each piece of art in our home had likely been paid for with blood. Yet I still couldn’t find a way to hate him or the art he’d created.
“He worked for a criminal organization,” I said. “Creating fake pieces to replace stolen ones. When he died six months ago, his employer decided I must know where he kept the originals.”
