Page 13 of Enemy of the Heart

Too bad for them that I won’t be living out the remainder of my life here. Lou is coming.

Visions of her stunning face flash behind my eyelids, providing me with the strength to endure the agony of swallowing copious amounts of water instead of the air I crave. Deluges burn my lungs, damage my air passages, and test my psyche for what feels like hours. At some point, Thompson has forced Jace to take over the torture, but I’m so lost in my own world—lit only by the light of Lou—that I don’t notice until the rags are yanked from my face and my mouth.

“There will be more where that came from,” my best friend warns me, speaking for the first time, but where Jace’s deep voice is usually velvety, it sounds hoarse and grating now.

What did they do to you, man? I query with only my eyes, but he makes no move to acknowledge the silent message.

With my lungs still on fire, I grit my teeth against the woozy feeling that the lack of oxygen has left me with as I’m dragged back to my cell, where I curl my body into the farthest corner.

I’m lethargic, dizzy, bitterly exhausted, and so damn weak, but I’m clutching onto the hope that they aren’t trying to kill me yet; not until they’ve had their fun.

Louhi

My leg bounces uncontrollably in the back seat as the SUV pulls into Conall’s underground garage in downtown Boston. This out-of-control emotion isn’t something I’ve experienced since I was seventeen and the doctors were explaining my options. I hate this feeling. I’ve always maimed and murdered my way through sticky situations. Death solves a lot of issues. Not this time.

I’m nine thousand kilometers from where I should be, from the man I love. I hate that Viktor is right about needing a plan if we’re going to get Sean and Kazi out alive. Then there’s the complication of my brother…

“Have you heard from Mercer?” I twist my hands in my lap as the car comes to a stop.

Viktor frowns. “No, why?”

Battling with my frayed nerves, I drop my head back against the leather seat. “I need to get in contact with him.”

“Once we’re back in Russia, we can discuss this again,” Viktor offers, and I grind my teeth.

Fuck, I need an outlet.

Conall McQuaid emerges from the lift as we climb from the vehicle, his eyes widening as he takes me in. I look like hell and a half, but I can’t be bothered. There’s time for a haircut later.

“Louhi, it’s good to see you.” Con’s Irish brogue is thick as he acknowledges me, dipping his chin. I smile politely as Viktor ushers me inside the lift with a hand on the small of my back. I bare my teeth in warning. He chuckles, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He’s always been like this; his hands have some sort of laser instinct when it comes to women.

His two colossal wolfdogs fill the last remaining space as the chrome doors close. They nuzzle against Viktor’s legs.

“I didn’t think I’d have the chance to see you again for another several months,” Conall remarks in Vik’s direction. The two of them have been friends from the moment Con’s father died several years ago and he took control of the Irish crime syndicate. It’s an alliance no one saw coming.

When the doors part, I’m greeted by identical twin flames, part of Conall’s inner circle: brothers, Declan and Desmond. Kieran, Con’s second, is nowhere to be found, but I’m not surprised. He’s been spending more time in Ireland lately.

“Goddamn, Louhi, you look… rough,” Declan remarks, his dark eyebrows inches from his hairline.

The corner of my lips twitches as I roll my eyes. “Exactly the words every beautiful woman wants to hear.”

“Well, she looks much better now that she’s wearing my clothes,” Viktor observes with a smirk, charm dripping like diamond baubles.

“Watch yourself,” I warn Viktor with a lethal smile painting my lips. “He’s killed for me. He’ll do it again.”

He sniggers. “Ah, are we referring to inmate number sixty-nine?”

I loathe to think of Sean as anything other than the guard I fell for, though I’m certain he’s on the other side of things now.

“How old are you? Twelve?”

Vik chuckles, the sound reminding me of a much younger version of him. “Forty-two, actually, but thank you for letting me know that I look young for my age.”

“Prepubescent isn’t a compliment,” I mutter.

“Prepubescent is not what the lovely women in by bed are claiming,” he retorts.

“Are you sure they were speaking a language you can understand?” I snipe as I stride for the wine closet off Conall’s kitchen and step inside. I’ve spent quite a lot of time here, so I know my way around, and I carefully remove the bottle of Bordeaux I’m searching for.