“Hey! Who was that?” Heather calls from the table, mid-bite of orange chicken. Her voice is light and carefree as always.
I force my shoulders to relax. “My mom,” I say easily, pulling out my chair. “Just checking in.”
Heather smiles at me, and my chest tightens so sharply it almost makes me wince. I hate lying to her and Emma. I sit down across from them, the scent of soy sauce and ginger suddenly overwhelming.Fuck, my stomach.
Rafe is arguing with Adela about something trivial. Heather reaches for another carton.
But Emma is looking at me, and one glance is all it takes. Her eyes search my face like she’s already sensing the shift in me. I grin and take a swig of my iced tea, willing the tight energy away. She can’t afford to doubt our ability to save him.
None of us can.
Rafe’s office door is half closed when I make my way there. I knock once, then push it open and step inside, closing it firmly behind me.
He looks up from behind his desk immediately, reading me in one glance. “What happened?”
I lean back against the door for a second, exhale through my nose. “He called.”
Rafe’s expression sharpens. “Jude?”
I nod.
“And?”
I cross the room and drop into the chair opposite him. My forearms brace on my thighs, hands clasped tight enough to ache. “He knows we’re here. He’s pissed. But that’s not the problem. I knew he would be.” My jaw tightens. “Alexei told him he’d sell Emma if he found out we were trying to help him.”
He doesn’t react at first. Then something flickers behind his eyes. Anger, grief...hard to tell. “Sell,” he repeats quietly.
“He said there’s a trafficker Alexei’s close with. Someone who’s already shown interest in Adriana, apparently.”
Rafe leans back slowly in his chair. His fingers lace together over his stomach. He stares past me for a moment, like he’s looking at something that isn’t in this room. “The skin trade in Russia is particularly brutal,” he says at last. His voice is even, but I see the tension in his jaw. “It’s not just back alleys. It’s businessmen. Politicians. Private islands. High-end auctions.” He swallows once. “My darling wife saw some of that brutality firsthand when she was taken.” He winces slightly.
“Jesus,” I say. I can't imagine that beautiful and strong woman being victimized by any man. Hell, even I wouldn't every do anything to piss her off. “He sounded genuinely scared. I don’t think he’d lie about something like that.”
“No,” Rafe agrees. “He wouldn’t.”
Silence stretches for a few heavy moments.
I sigh. “I didn’t tell the girls.”
He studies me carefully. “Why?”
“Because it could derail them.” The words come fast now. “Emma’s already barely holding it together. She's putting up a strong front, or she really is starting to change. I don't know. But if she hears that there’s some sick bastard thinking about putting her on a fucking auction block, she won’t think strategically. She’ll go nuclear. She’s the sweetest girl in the world, but I worry that she’ll lose her goddamn mind. Love makes people do crazy things out of desperation.”
“Love drives the strongest of men to their knees. It can turn us into beautiful creatures, but also, rabid fucking animals who would kill without thinking.” He pauses, keeping his ice-cold eyes on mine. “I would also be worried about their safety.”
“Yeah.” I scrub a hand over my face. “If traffickers are involved, this isn’t just about pulling Jude out anymore. It’s bigger.”
Rafe nods once. “You’re right. He’s entangled in something that requires strategy and trust to even have a chance at getting him out.” He stands, walks over to the cabinet behind his desk, and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. Two glasses follow. He pours without asking.
I take the glass when he hands it to me. The burn hits hard on the first swallow, settling in my chest. I don’t wince at it like I usually would, though. That’s how I can tell that it’s likely the most expensive fucking whiskey on the market.
“We keep going,” Rafe says. “I’ll do everything I can to keep Emma and Heather safe. You have my word.”
Some tension in my shoulders loosens at that. “Thank you,” I say.
He nods once, then studies me over the rim of his glass. “What was he like? Before all this.”
I huff a humorless breath. “Loud,” I say. “Annoying as hell. He used to laugh at everything. He loved cheap beer that reminded him of home, and he’d get drunk and write songs while sitting on the living room floor.” A faint smile tugs at my mouth. “He had this stupid hero complex. Always trying to help people. He was...good. Full of life and excited about living it.”
