"You’re a child."
Mary gasped in mock offense. "I am not a child."
Gregor finally met her eyes. "You’re a child to me. I prefer older women."
Artem clapped his hands together. "This is fascinating, but we have an omega to find. Mary, behave. Gregor, come. And Killian and Blade, hands off."
“Spoilsport,” she murmured.
Killian’s lips twitched, suggesting he was enjoying this far more than he should.
Gregor was at the front door when I got there, his hazel eyes locked onto me. He had the stillness of a man who could wait for centuries if the mission required it.
"Is it really her?" Gregor rumbled.
"It’s her."
Gregor’s jaw jutted out. That was it. That was his entire emotional response. For Gregor, a move of his jaw was the equivalent of me or Artem throwing a chair, screaming, and putting a hole through a wall simultaneously. I’d once seen Gregor take a bullet in Moscow with a less visible reaction.
"And Gregor?" I said.
"Boss."
"No scaring her."
“I’d never do that, Boss.”
Artem appeared behind me, shrugging on his jacket. "I’ve called the airport, but we have to wait eight hours for a slot."
I looked at my pack mates. For nine months, we’d been three alphas orbiting the absence of a woman like planets around a missing sun, and not one of us had admitted it out loud.
"We’ll drive," I said.
Artem didn’t argue. He just nodded, his eyes already distant, as if he was already halfway to Edinburgh.
"Good," he said. It was the most emotionally articulate thing he’d said in nine months.
The car was waiting at the curb. Black and obviously armored. The windows were tinted so dark they were nearly opaque because of the bulletproof glass, thick enough to stop a rifle round. Thick enough to protect our omega and our child.
I took the wheel because if anyone else drove, I would have ripped the door off.
Artem climbed into the passenger seat. Gregor took the back. This was standard formation. Artem rode up front because he liked to talk. Gregor rode in the back because he liked not talking. I drove because neither of them could be trusted behind the wheel when the situation was emotional, and this situation was the most emotional thing that had happened to the Petrov Pack since our omega disappeared from the hotel room in Prague.
The engine roared to life, a deep, throaty growl that vibrated through the seat. I pulled into traffic at a speed that was technically illegal but justified.
The wipers slashed across the windshield, struggling to keep up with the downpour. London was a blur of gray and rain, these days made the city feel like a cage. But who cared?
"So," Artem said, as I wove through the traffic. "Boots."
"Boots."
"Edinburgh."
"Edinburgh."
"And it’s been nine months. It has to be her."
I glanced at him. He was doing the sum on his fingers. Artem was a logistical guy, he ran the weapons division. He coordinated cross-border smuggling operations across four time zones. And he was counting to nine on his fingers like a child.
