Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  Nikita pulled back to shoot him an exasperated look – an ineffective one, given the dusting of pink along his high cheekbones, and the sparkle in his gaze. “Yes. We need to talk. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think you’ve ever…?”

  Sasha’s turn to blush. “Um. No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” No judgement. “And I want to tell you some things.” He leaned forward, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Sasha’s forehead. Then stepped back and turned away. “And we need to eat.”

  Sasha heaved a big, fake sigh. “You’re finally hungry. Now. That’s great.”

  But he smiled so wide his face hurt.

  They unpacked their food and sat down in their usual kitchen chairs across from one another. From those first early days in the Soviet flat in Moscow, through Alaskan cabins, and LA apartments, and in diners on the long trip to New York; to here, now: there had always been tables, and chairs, and meals between them.

  But tonight, Nikita actually took a massive bite of his sandwich, and kept eating.

  Sasha was so glad to see it that he didn’t dare comment on it, afraid he might stop. Instead, he admitted, feeling his face heat, “Val actually tried to get me to confess to you before.”

  Nikita swallowed, and his brows drew together. “Really?”

  “Yeah, it was in the nineties, and he thought…” He trailed off, shrugging. He didn’t want to talk about that night, because he didn’t want to have to talk about Nik’s bar hookups. Not tonight, not with whole heart fresh in the air between them.

  Nik’s tight, sideways smile said he understood. “Yeah. Well.” He glanced back down at his food, and then, to Sasha’s dismay, laid the sandwich back in its wrapper. “Val likes to get all up in everyone’s business.”

  “Can you blame him? He’s been locked up for centuries.”

  “Yeah.” The groove between Nik’s brows deepened, and he reached to wipe his hands with a napkin. Done with eating, then.

  This was awkward.

  Uncharted territory for both of them, and Sasha could sense that Nikita wanted to get this right as badly as he himself did. Desperately wanting to bridge the gap that had lain between them, that unlooked-at, unspoken chasm of their shared feelings, always carefully skirted for fear of the other’s intensity, and of ruining what they already had.

  In light of all they’d lived through, it seemed pretty stupid.

  Quietly, Sasha said, “What did you want to tell me?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Nikita nodded, but his mouth got tight, cheekbones throwing shadows down the taut lines of his jaw. “I…”

  Sasha had the impulse to reach across the table, and didn’t check it; covered Nik’s hand – balled tight into a fist around his napkin – with his own, and squeezed. Sasha said, “You can tell me anything.” It broke his heart that Nik didn’t already know that.

  He nodded again, and let out a slow breath. “I know that the past is in the past. I know it doesn’t matter. Not now. But I want – I want to be honest with you. You know about Katya.” His gaze, trained on their hands, lifted, imploring. “But I wanted to tell you about Dima.”

  “Dima,” Sasha echoed, confused, and then it dropped. Pyotr’s brother. The one killed in a Cheka raid before the pack had ever come to find him in Siberia. “Dimitri,” he said, and Nikita nodded yet again, and his gaze dropped, and his throat jumped when he swallowed.

  Sasha’s breath hitched. “You and him…the two of you…”

  “Yes. We grew up together. We…” He gritted his teeth, bared them; a hard shudder moved through his body, his hand trembling beneath Sasha’s palm. “I never told Pyotr. I never told anyone; I was always telling Dima he was too obvious, and we had to be more careful. I wasn’t – I wasn’t kind about it. I didn’t deserve…and then he died. And–”

  He broke off with a surprised sound when Sasha let go of his hand, and, heedless of their half-eaten dinner, climbed over the table and into his lap. His arms came up immediately, though, holding Sasha to him as he settled, his face in Nik’s throat; not just holding, but clinging, hands curled tight and shaking.

  Sasha reached up and stroked the backs of his fingers gently down Nik’s cheek; found the skin damp with tears. “Shh, it’s alright. I knew. Darling, I knew.” The pet name came as a surprise; it was one that Val always used, but it felt right, like something Nikita needed to hear. That he deserved, no matter what sort of self-flagellating ideas he had to the contrary.

  “You knew?” Nik asked, voice watery and surprised.

  “I knew that you loved him very much.” He’d floundered for only a second after Nik said it, and then it had slotted neatly into place. Ah, so that was why. “The way you talked about him. The look on your face when you did – you were so, so sad. I didn’t know that you and he” –

  Black gloves, and black coats, and pale, frostbitten skin warmed by stolen kisses, in shadows, and in stairwells, biting and furious and desperate and secret. Nik, anguished by nature, hating himself, his gaze haunted.

  –“were together.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Nikita,” Sasha said, and let all his wounded sympathy bleed into his voice.

  Nik took a shattered breath and pressed his face into Sasha’s hair. “I’m so afraid,” he said in a small, cracked voice. “It hurt to lose Dima, and it hurt to leave Katya, but I cannot live if I lose you. I’m so afraid something terrible will happen. I’m so – I’m so afraid I’m not allowed to be happy, and that if I kiss you, it’ll mean that you’ll…” He couldn’t finish, letting out a small, feline growl.

  Sasha put his arms around his neck, and held tight. Pressed his nose to the side of Nik’s face. “You will never lose me,” he said fiercely. “Not ever. Wolves mate for life, and I choose you. You are mine, Nikita Baskin, and I won’t let you go. I will fight, and claw, and tear out every heart I have to to keep us safe. Don’t be afraid. Not of this.”

  Nik’s mouth fell open on a low gasp. But for once in his stubborn life, he didn’t protest.

  “I love you,” Sasha said, his voice half a growl. “I love you, I love you, I love you. And you will have me always. You always have.”

  9

  Lanny’s nose worked like a drug dog’s these days. Trina refrained from telling him as much as they criss-crossed their way, slow and methodical, across their precinct, peering in dumpsters, lingering in alleys, Lanny’s head tipped back as he breathed deep, nostrils flared, searching for the scents they’d picked up off the dead body last night.

  He paused, once, at the door of a dry cleaner, eyes sparking. “Maybe…nah.” Shook his head and pressed on.

  They ate cart hotdogs for lunch, and then had to swing into a bodega for a bottle of Tums. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and the streetlamps were coming on; they’d just decided to call it a day and grab dinner, when Lanny froze, and he took a short, sharp breath in through his nose; it whistled faintly.

  Trina’s hand went automatically to the butt of her gun. “What?”

  He nodded forward down the sidewalk, his eyes wide, pupils expanding. “Them. I recognize them.”

  Trina followed his gaze. A small crowd of teenagers stepped out of the Verizon store and headed for the street, laughing and hailing a cab. When they were past, Trina spotted two people standing totally still, side-by-side. A rangy young man with shining, curly dark hair, and a strikingly handsome face. The other was young, a boy, she realized, his expression sullen, white-blond hair cupped around his head in a grown-out pageboy cut.

  “Wolves,” Lanny said, and then Trina recognized the older, handsomer one.

  “Virginia,” she said. “They’re…”

  Both wore modern clothes, mostly, but long-hemmed hoodies overtop their t-shirts and jeans. Long-hemmed hoodies in a very particular shade of green.

  The wolves started toward them.

  “What’s your read on this?” Trina asked, and for maybe the first time hated that she lacked his new, upgraded senses.

  “They wan
t to talk,” Lanny said. “They’re friendly. I think.”

  And then the wolves were right in front of them.

  Trina’s hand tightened on her gun.

  The handsome one’s gaze flicked down, noting the movement, then lifted to meet her own. He smiled, charming and friendly. “Hello.” British accent. “I’m afraid we haven’t officially met as of yet. My name is Will Scarlet, and this is Much.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder that was shrugged off. “We were–”

  “At the Institute,” Trina said. “What are you doing here?”

  Much’s expression soured, but Will’s smile became amused, his eyes shining.

  “Bungling introductions all the way around, apparently,” Will said. “We spoke with Nikita and Sasha last night,” he continued, which was news to Trina, “and I suppose it’s only fair if we talk to each member of your pack.”

  “About…?” Lanny asked.

  “A possible alliance.”

  Trina took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. She couldn’t decide, in the moment, if she was annoyed, or worried, or both.

  “I’m sorry,” Will continued. “I don’t mean to presume, and you’re of course under no obligation. I thought we might buy you dinner, and that we could discuss things further. Not tonight, obviously, if that doesn’t work for you. We’ll be in town for a few days.”

  He was so…pleasant. Reasonable.

  She traded a look with Lanny, who gave her his little eyebrow shrug. Her own human instincts told her these guys weren’t dangerous, and if Lanny wasn’t detecting anything nefarious, then she guessed they had no reason to be rude. Only…

  She turned back to Will and said, “We’re not looking to get into the whole immortal superhero thing, understand. We have lives and jobs here.”

  “Of course,” Will said. “But I’d still like the chance to talk, if that’s alright.”

  She shrugged. “We were about to get dinner, anyway.”

  He beamed. “Lovely.”

  Much rolled his eyes.

  ~*~

  “Since you’re buying…” Lanny said, and led them to his favorite steakhouse.

  Trina bit back a smile.

  Once they’d ordered wine – a Cabernet the color of blood, Trina couldn’t fail to notice – and had their order put in, Trina fixed her best detective smile in place – the one that projected calm friendliness – and said, “I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume Nik told you to take a hike.”

  Will had the grace to look chagrined. A true reaction? She wondered. Or him playing a part. He certainly fit the bill of the hopelessly charming Brit, and in her line of work, hopelessly charming people used that to their advantage – even as a weapon.

  “Not in those exact terms, no,” he said. “But he didn’t want anything to do with me. In fact, I suspect if he hadn’t been unconscious at first–”

  “He what?” Trina said, gut clenching. Her arms tensed, hand itching to go for her waistband again.

  “He – well, he passed out, I’m afraid,” Will said, brows knitting together; polite regret. “It’s to do with his blood sugar, Sasha said.” He seemed baffled by the idea. “He doesn’t eat, apparently, and then.” He gave an elegant hand gesture. “Sasha all but dragged him down to the pub so we could chat. By the time he came around – and in bad shape, too – he was boxed in and rather forced to at least hear me out.”

  “Shit, he hated that,” Lanny said. He picked up his wine and drained half the glass in one long, bad-mannered gulp. Trina could read the tension in him, though; the muscle that ticked in his jaw. The tightness around his eyes.

  “He seemed to,” Will said. “But I think Sasha might have been receptive.”

  “Receptive to what?” Trina asked.

  He reached into an interior pocket of his hoodie and produced a small black business card with the casual flare of long practice. “Joining us,” he said, as he handed it toward her between two elegant, but callused fingers.

  She held his gaze – and didn’t take the card.

  “Ah,” he said, with a sideways smile. “I see.”

  Lanny reached over and took the thing, though, tilting it so the soft lamplight flared over its gilt lettering. “Lionheart,” he read aloud.

  “I already have one of those,” Trina said. Cool, but careful not to bite. She wasn’t nervous – but this bothered her, for reasons she didn’t yet understand.

  “From Deshawn,” Will said, nodding. “He’s one of our best.”

  Much – not allowed to have wine because there wasn’t a fake ID in the world that would allow him to pass for twenty-one – made a face and said, “Can’t we just get on with all this? They’re going to say no, anyway.”

  “Why do you look like a toddler?” Lanny asked him, and Trina nearly choked on a sudden laugh, but managed to swallow it.

  “You–” Much started, face going crimson, leaning over the table.

  Will clamped a hand on his shoulder, and shoved him back into his seat. “Wolves,” he said, pleasantly, “as I’m sure you’ve realized after having been acquainted with Sasha, are arrested at the moment of their turning. If they’re turned. Born is another story. But. Much was only fifteen when–”

  “Just ask them already,” Much said, snarling low in his throat – a true wolf sound. Glaring at Lanny. “I want to leave.”

  Will turned his head to regard his friend. “We have steaks coming,” he said, low and soothing. “We’ll eat. I’ll do the negotiating. And then we can leave.”

  “I’m not a child, you fucker,” Much hissed.

  “Of course not, old chap.” Will patted him on the shoulder, twice, quickly, and then turned back to them with an apologetic smile. “I guess I should get to the point, then.”

  “That’d be good, yeah,” Lanny said.

  Will let out a slow breath. “Well, you see, the thing is: we handle supernatural security jobs.” He kept his voice low; Trina had to lean forward to hear, though Lanny, with his new vampiric senses, stayed put. “Sometimes, out in the world, things happen that mortals have a very hard time explaining. A few questions in the right ears, a few notes passed back and forth, some governmental phone calls, and we get notified. We have the experience, the knowledge, and the resources to get in and out of anywhere quickly, and efficiently. Our activities don’t even make the evening news, most times.

  “But it’s important work. Work that we’re – uniquely qualified for.”

  “You had helicopters in Virginia,” Trina reminded.

  “We have lots of resources.”

  Lanny cleared his throat; a rude, impatient sound. “Okay, so. Robin Hood is real, and he’s still out there Robin Hooding it up. You guys are out there fighting the good fight, or whatever.” He gave a mocking little salute with a closed fist. “You’re here because, why? You think we’ll drop our lives and come fight monster crime with you?”

  Much snorted, mouth twitching into the hint of a nasty smile.

  Will’s own smile was thin and tight. “The simple fact that the Institute stopped pursuing you tells me you have leverage on them. You’ve seen the videos.”

  “We have,” Trina agreed, reluctantly.

  “Then I think you can understand why we might be recruiting.”

  Their food arrived in the midst of the loaded silence that followed, and Trina let herself get caught in Will Scarlet’s unwavering gaze. He was handsome, and charming, yes, but that was all a veneer covering steel. A steel that maybe shouldn’t have surprised her, but which did anyway.

  That was the problem with immortals: they looked young, and smooth, and they spoke like modern men and women. But they were much, much older than she was – and they had the histories of violence to prove it. A kind of experience she couldn’t hope to match.

  She would try, though.

  When the server was gone, and their steaks sat steaming untouched in front of them, Trina said, “We’re just a small pack. And a pretty inept one at that.”

  “Hey,” Lanny pr
otested.

  Will said, “I agree.”

  “Hey!”

  “Forgive me,” Will said. “You’re both obviously competent in your field. Deshawn says you handled yourself especially well in Virginia, Trina, but it’s not your pack we’d like to bring on with our unit. Only two of them, really. Or, rather, just the one. But it will be easier for all involved if he’s bound to a master.”

  “Master?” Trina and Lanny asked in unison.

  Will picked up his silverware, and unrolled his napkin from around it. “You might as well eat. This could take some time to explain.”

  ~*~

  A “binding,” Will told them, was a bond of blood and will imposed on a Familiar – mage or wolf – by a vampire. Sometimes it was forced, but often it was mutually agreed upon.

  “There have been cases of abuse, obviously. Wolves subjugated to absolute slavery. But it is a bond broken only by death. And, most often, a great honor for the Familiars. Depending on their masters, of course.”

  “You keep saying that word…” Lanny said.

  “Master? It’s antiquated, I admit. But mostly appropriate. Perhaps you’d prefer something like ‘boss,’ though.”

  “And you think Sasha,” Trina said, voice sharp with sarcasm, “needs a master?”

  “I think he already has one. Nikita only needs to secure a true binding. To be honest, I can’t believe he hasn’t already.”

  For the first time, she felt true anger stirring. Lanny started to respond, but she beat him to it. “You’re wasting your time, here. Nikita would never be Sasha’s master.” He adored that kid. “He’d be incredibly insulted if you ever suggested as much to him. He’d never make a slave out of him.”

  “He wouldn’t be a slave,” Will said, with a patience that darkened her anger. “Between the two of them, it would be entirely reciprocal and willing.”

  “Why would any dumbass want to bind himself to somebody else?” Lanny asked, sneering openly now. “What kinda backward-ass, Middle Ages shit is that?”

  Will’s façade began to crack; underneath lay sternness. And something fathomless; a sense of age that lurked in his eyes, rather than on the smooth skin of his face. “It’s ancient. So you might say it’s very backward. But.” His gaze shifted to Trina, and, much to her sudden disgust, it pinned her in place, and left her feeling very small. “It’s the only way to prevent another vampire from forcing a bond on Sasha. A bond from, say, my master. Or from Vlad Tepes, or from someone much, much worse.”