He loved…her.
He loved her. Yeah, that was the name for it.
Probably he always had.
But like every other idiot member of his family, he’d spent his life running from good things. Things that would make him better, make him happy.
All he could do was love her now, the way she deserved, and pray it wasn’t too late for a second chance.
Thirty-Two
“Hold on, let me just secure it here at the bottom…there.”
Raven stepped back, and Mercy turned his head side to side, examining his reflection critically in the mirror.
She’d used a palmful of wax to slick his hair back along the crown, then braided it, tucked it under, and clubbed it with a bit of black silk ribbon. He’d shaved off his several days’ worth of beard scruff, and Raven had applied a very light, deft bit of shadow and liner to his eyes.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I look like a Russian hitman.” He grinned, and the effect of his white smile against the darkness of his eyelids was downright sinister. “I dig it.”
Raven looked pleased in the mirror as she turned to rearrange her beauty supplies. “Excellent. Go fetch your pretty redheaded friend, please.”
Mercy stood, struck again by the strange feeling of slick fabric shifting over his skin. They’d managed to cobble together a suit for him – and a fairly nice one too. He wasn’t used to wearing clothes he hadn’t bought at Tractor Supply or Walmart.
He chuckled. “I’ll pay you to call him that to his face.”
She sent him a fast, vicious smile. “No, thanks, darling. Off you go.”
He stepped out into the hall, expecting Ian to be there, waiting his turn – but no, that wouldn’t be his style. Bruce waited, hands folded in front of him, and he nodded down toward the end of the hall, to the alcove by the window, the rain-streaked glass, and Ian’s lean figure settled in a wingback chair, limned in silver sunlight.
He held his phone pressed to his ear, voice low, words discernable as Mercy approached.
“…yes, darling, very careful.” He smiled to himself, the sort of soft, indrawn smile not meant for an audience. “Yes, well, there’s plenty of heathens here to do the dirty work. No, I won’t…I know, love. Yes, I love you, too.”
His gaze flicked up and found Mercy, and his expression closed off. “I have to go. Yes, soon. Bye.” He terminated the call and slipped his phone away. “Something you needed?” he asked Mercy.
And Mercy paused. Ian’s face had already closed off, smoothed into something professional and calm, but Mercy had seen the warmth in it before; the doubt, and nerves, and the raw emotion.
He knew a moment’s intense guilt. It had been Ian who’d suggested coming along; he hadn’t been dragged. He’d straightened his cuffs and tossed his hair over his shoulder and said, “It seems as if you’re in need of some expertise.” And they had been, and they were, but after all the kid had been through, Mercy felt bad for bringing him across the pond, to this city he’d been born in, and been taken from, so near a family he wasn’t brave enough to reach out to anymore. He’d come here to help the Dogs – his new family, the one who’d taken him in without question or judgement.
“Raven’s ready for you,” Mercy said, softer than he’d intended. It was the same voice he used on his kids, and he knew it, but it had just come out without prompt. “I have no idea what she’ll wanna do to your hair, but.” He turned his own head side to side, showing off his clubbed braid.
Ian whistled and got to his feet, leaning in to inspect her handiwork. “And the eyes.” He gestured to his own. “Craftily done, that. Well.” He tugged his jacket lapels straight and tipped his head back. He had the air of someone entering a lion’s den, Mercy thought. “Once more unto the breach, I suppose.”
“Hey.” Mercy stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to do this. I can go with the rest, and–”
“And what? Fuck all of it up?” His smile was mocking – but tight. “I know perfectly well what I’m getting myself into, Felix, thank you. I’ll be fine.”
“Well. If–”
“No. Think nothing of it.” He tipped his head and narrowed his gaze, comically over the top. “How’s your pretend French accent?”
“Pretend?” Mercy scoffed, and hit him with a stream of perfect French.
Ian’s smile became truer. “How shall you like being my arm candy this evening?”
“Tres bien, monsieur.”
~*~
“Now,” Raven said, clapping her hands together.
The sniper boy – Evan – jumped halfway out of his chair at the sound, and then eased back down.
The other one – Reese – didn’t so much as blink.
Raven was determined not to look at him too closely. “A little off,” Mercy had told her, with an apologetic shrug of his massive shoulders. That, it appeared, had been an understatement of epic proportions. Even Evan kept trying to edge away from him, which put him in danger of falling off the side of his chair.
“You boys,” she continued, “are going to be my models for this little scheme. So it’s time to beautify you.”
Evan paused in his avoidance maneuvers, hanging off the chair by half an ass-cheek and one hand, other arm raised up above his head. She wanted to punch him.
“Wait,” he said, with dawning horror. “Models?”
“What did you think I’d have you do? Orchestrate something? Please. I need two skinny boys to help with the infiltration, and you both know how to shoot.”
“But–”
“You do know how to shoot, don’t you?”
“I’m…a sniper.”
“Excellent. Now, put your arms down and hold still.”
Much to Raven’s surprise, working like this kept her mind off Cass, and helped along the time between the meeting and the eventual execution of their hairbrained scheme to get her back. She retreated into her professional persona, and let her work-brain do all the, well, work.
Though tousled and careless, Evan had admirable bone structure, and his dark tan boasted a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and under his amber-brown eyes. She made short work of taming his hair, with lots of wax and the aid of a few well-hidden bobby pins. Then onto his face; here she had to be careful, wanting to draw attention to the freckles, rather than cover them. Defining marks were in now, thank goodness, and no longer things to be hidden beneath layers of caked-on foundation. She highlighted his eyes, drew them out with dramatic shadow, and cat-eye liner, and a few careful glue-on lash extensions. Bronzer for his high cheekbones, and a bit of gold on his lips.
“Um,” he said, fidgeting in his chair. “This feels like…a lot of makeup.”
“It looks tasteful, don’t worry.”
Then it was Reese’s turn.
She hesitated, caught off guard yet again by the utter stillness of him. He sat ramrod straight, hands pressed flat to his thighs, breathing so slow and measured it was hard to detect, gaze fixed somewhere unseeing in the middle distance. He didn’t blink. It gave her a chance to examine him up close: his pale eyes, and pale lashes, and the eerie doll-like quality of his face.
She reached for her brushes, but again hesitated.
His gaze focused, suddenly, an awareness coming into his eyes. It still wasn’t entirely human, and she just barely caught herself before she recoiled from it.
He looked at her, direct, without a scrap of self-consciousness.
She bit back a startled gasp. Swallowed it down. She lifted one of her brushes. “I think – I think we’ll use blues and blacks. A little olive, to match the clothes. Really make your eyes pop.”
He studied her a long, fathomless moment, then nodded once and shut his eyes, face tipped up to her. She would have called it trusting, but there’d been nothing like human emotion in his gaze.
She glanced over at Evan, who shook his head, gold-tinged lip caught between his teeth.
Raven took a shaky breath. �
��Alright. Here goes.”
~*~
Albie bit his lip, and Axelle knew he was nearing the end of his patience.
Still, she rearranged the cards in her hand and said, “Go fish.”
“This is such a stupid game,” he muttered.
“Says the guy who got himself blown up.”
He scowled down at his hand of cards, and muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?”
He grunted in response.
“Flash left some oxycontin, why don’t you–”
“No.”
“Albie–”
“I said no.”
“You’re being an asshole,” she informed him.
“Then why don’t you leave me alone?” A mean question, but she heard the true curiosity in his voice, the lack of heat. The uncertainty.
She sighed. “Because if I do, you’ll try to get dressed and leave, and you’re not in any kinda shape to do that. So. Go fish.”
He looked at his cards. At the rest of the deck sitting between them on top of the blankets, face-down. “I can’t believe you don’t know how to play poker,” he muttered, but reached for a new card to add to his hand.
“Too busy learning how to rebuild transmissions,” she said lightly, “no time for stupid card games.”
“There’s always time for stupid card games.”
The last of the morphine was wearing off, she could tell. He seemed tired – his eyelids heavy, body swaying slightly side to side every so often. But his mind was sharp again, and his unusual display of temper told her his pain was significant, as did the way he clenched his jaw. She was trying to distract him, but her own frustration was getting harder and harder to bite back. He needed some more drugs, and she was starting to entertain fantasies of pinching his nose shut and forcing him to dry-swallow one of the pills Flash had left behind.
Someone passed by outside: low voices, and footfalls muffled by the carpet runner. Albie lifted his head, one-eyed gaze going straight for the door. His jaw tightened an impossible fraction, and his hand clenched around the cards, bending the edges.
It was going to be a very long day.
And then a very long night.
Just leave, a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind. Some last shred of stubbornness. But she pushed it away without any real thought. No, she was here. She wasn’t leaving. Like she’d told him: she cared.
“Will you at least put some ice on that eye?” she asked. “Before it swells up and takes over your entire face?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
Axelle popped up, grateful for the chance to stretch her legs – she wasn’t used to all this sitting around bullshit – and went to the door, intending to go down to the kitchen. Someone waited in the hall, though. A prospect, leaning back against the wall, arms folded.
He lifted his brows. “Need something?”
She stepped out and pulled the door to behind her. “Are you guarding the door?” she whispered.
He grinned. “Phil was afraid Albie might decide to hit you over the head and pull a runner.”
She snorted.
“Whatcha need, love?”
“An ice pack. For his eye. He’s not going to ‘hit me over the head,’ thanks, but he is gonna drive me crazy.”
He nodded like he’d expected as much. “Yeah. Sounds about right. I’ll be back.” He headed off, presumably in search of the ice pack.
She…lingered there in the hall. She wasn’t proud of it, but, care or not, Albie was driving her crazy.
“Hey,” someone said off to her right. Someone with an American accent.
She twisted around sharply, and was met with…a strange sight.
The man was tall. Very tall. Taller than anyone else here. Broad-shouldered. Intimidating. His hair was probably long when it wasn’t slicked back, and tied up. He wore a suit that, while it fit, looked out of place on him, for reasons she didn’t understand. He had a deeply tanned, handsome narrow face, and when he smiled, it slid across his lips at a roughish angle. He was wearing makeup, just enough to be noticeable.
“You’re Albie’s girl, right?” he asked.
“Uh. Yeah. Not really.”
His grin widened. “Ah.”
“Ah, what?”
“Nothing.” He chuckled. “You coming with us? Or you staying here?”
She couldn’t help but bristle. “I’ve gotta stay and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. Why? Is that a problem for you?”
“No.” He shook his head, and his smile seemed genuine – for what it was worth. “You just remind me of someone is all.”
The prospect returned, breathless, red-faced. He’d run all the way down and back up. “Here you go.” He thrust a frosty ice pack toward her. “Need anything else?”
“No. Thanks.” She cast one last glance toward the tall, smiling man – still tall, still smiling – and then ducked back in the room and shut the door.
When she turned around, Albie wasn’t there.
“Shit!” She lurched forward, tossed the ice pack on the bed, and went looking for him.
She didn’t have to look far. The door to the bathroom stood open, and Albie stood just inside it, one hand braced on the counter, and the other on the towel bar hooked to the wall, head hanging down between his shoulders, breathing harshly through his mouth. When they’d come home, his brothers had dressed him in real clothes: soft-looking sweats, and thick socks, and a faded old blue t-shirt with the signature black dog silk-screened on the front. She knew he hadn’t lost any weight – it had been less than a day since the explosion, and such a thing wasn’t possible – but he looked small to her now, his shoulders bowed, and his arms shaking, and his knees bent like he was having trouble holding himself upright.
“Don’t fall down,” Axelle said.
“I won’t.” But he didn’t move, and he kept shaking, and falling was a real possibility.
She stepped forward, ducked under one of his arms, the good one, without the cast, and looped her arm around his waist.
“Don’t,” he said, but he held on to her. “Ax, this is…” Mortifying, he didn’t say, but she knew.
“I know,” she murmured. “Here, what do you…?”
“Just. If I can get closer.”
They shuffled, and the amount of weight he rested on her alarmed her; he was weaker than he’d pretended, weaker even than she’d thought.
“Should I…”
“Outside. Please. God.” He closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth. “I can at least piss by myself.”
“Alright.” She slipped from beneath his arm and made sure he was steady. “There’s a towel bar right there.”
“Yeah, I got it. Thanks.” Tight, embarrassed.
She closed the door to give him as much privacy as she could, and retreated back to her chair beside the bed. She didn’t sit, though; found instead that she didn’t want to be still. She took the chance to straighten his blankets, tug them all into place, and fold them down fresh. Fluff his pillows.
She heard the toilet flush, and the water run. And then, after, a tentative call of, “Axelle?”
She didn’t try to tell herself that she didn’t hurry to the bathroom. “You alright?” she asked as she opened the door, heart thumping.
He stood in front of the sink, hands braced on the counter, head bowed.
“You alright?” she asked again, softer this time.
He breathed through his mouth a few times, then gave a twitch that fell somewhere between a nod and a head-shake. “Just…dizzy. For a second.”
He wasn’t going to ask for help outright, she realized.
“Let’s go back to bed.”
When she stepped up beside him, she looked into the mirror and saw that his gaze had lifted; they locked eyes a moment.
She’d known he hated this – he’d been fighting the meds, after all – but in that second, she saw just how much he hated it. The helplessness, and the feeling of being useless; side
lined as the whole rest of his family prepared to go to war.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, and meant it.
He shrugged and looked away. “Help me back to bed?” Voice small and shamed.
“Sure.”
He went without a fuss.
~*~
“I’m going to hell,” Fox murmured, and passed over the cigarette.
Eden lay on her side, propped up on her elbow, and took the cigarette delicately. She took a hesitant drag, and then coughed a little afterward.
“Been a while?” he asked.
She cleared her throat. “Yeah.” She passed it back. “In more ways than one.” The latter she said with obvious embarrassment coloring her voice.
Fox was surprised she’d even admitted such a thing. He slid a glance her way, careful to keep his expression neutral. No easy feat when she lay there naked, and flushed, hair tousled, lips dark, bruised from kissing.
“Probably not going to hell, though,” she said. “I’m pretty sure everyone shags now and then.”
When he cut a glance toward her, she smiled, tired, tinged with the stress of the day – of the week – but true.
“I meant people don’t shag while they’re baby sisters are being held hostage somewhere.”
She winced. “Can’t help you on that one, I’m afraid.”
Fox felt a low laugh build in his chest, and it eased a fraction of the tension there.
“But,” Eden continued, “if she’s anything like the rest of you fools, she’s probably managed not only to keep her head above water, but to concoct a ridiculous escape plan by now.”
When he glared at her, she sighed. “I’m only trying to make you feel better, love.”
“I know,” he said. And then the last word hit. Love. He felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Been a long time since you called me that.”
She reached for the cigarette again and he passed it over. Watched her take another short drag and tip her head back to blow the smoke up at ceiling.
Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3) Page 28
