by Angel Payne
The agony gets worse as Lydia slams the door right before Colton hits the gas. It’s a mass riot in my system, a million renegades rushing my blood and a million more overrunning my nerve endings, combated by only one soft whisper. But holy God, what a rasp. What a voice. The perfection of strength and sibilance I’ve battled so hard to hear again. So hard…
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Reece. Reece, baby. Can you hear me? Open your eyes, you big dork. Please. Oh, God.”
“Hang on!” Colton again, his shout drowned by screeching tires. The whole vehicle swerves and jostles. A groan fills the air. Male. Fuck. Has Colton been hit?
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Emma’s frantic murmur, vibrating in my ear, supplies my answer. The groan was mine. The next one belongs to me too—a long, uncontrollable eruption, as more guerillas join the relentless rebellion in my body. I’ve driven them too far with my dictatorship. The revolt has begun. The revolt is violent.
Worth it.
“It’s okay, baby. Stay with me, Reece. Stay with me!”
“Yeeee haw!” A new blare, this time of elation and definitely not mine. As Colton bellows again, the truck clears some kind of bump, bouncing like a carnival ride. “We’re out—and we hosed those cockmunches!”
I groan again.
As pain sears every inch of me.
Worth it…
“Reece? Reece?” Emma’s not whispering it anymore. I comprehend the shriek in her voice but can barely lift a hand to her forearm, grazing my touch over her silken skin. “Holy shit. What happened to your hand? Reece?” Her lips brush my forehead. Her tears soak into my scalp. “What have those bastards done to you?”
With another miserable moan, I coerce my eyes to open. The depths of her gaze, liquid as fantasy lagoons, are already waiting. Though it hurts to smile, I can’t help myself. Though it hurts even more to lift my fingers all the way to her cheek, I do that too.
And though I can’t comprehend my parched throat being capable of sound, two syllables fight their way up that arid tunnel anyhow—in the pair of sparse seconds before the insurgents completely take over and plunge me into blackness.
“Worth. It.”
Chapter Four
Emma
Worth. It.
The words echo in my head and my heart even twelve hours later. As the day grows longer, I can swear the reverberations get louder.
The not-so-crazy justification?
I keep wondering if they’ll be the last words I ever hear him speak.
The not-so-paranoid backup for that? Every damn memory of the last twenty-four hours continuing to assault my mind. His heroism at the gala. Less than an hour after that, his magic in giving me the cosmic triumvirate of orgasms. Less than an hour after that, his mind-bending moves to leap—literally—to save Lydia and me.
But at what cost to himself?
At what drain to his system?
“Damn it, Reece.” I mutter it past tears because I abhor every answer my psyche conjures for those questions. And because he has no answer, lying so still against the pillows of his bed in this apartment where he and Sawyer have been holing up since getting to Manhattan. At least that’s the conclusion I’ve come to, since I broke my own rule about clingy girlfriend stunts about three days ago and finally jabbed his private number into a phone-finding app.
But worse than the admission of doing it is the confrontation of exactly why.
Once I’d learned he’d chosen to stay at a rented place around the corner from the Obelisk instead of at the hotel itself, had I been touched that he chose to give me the space I’d requested when leaving LA? Had I considered that it was probably killing him to leave me alone despite suspecting the Consortium was hatching a plan to get to him through me? Had I even tried to think how excruciating it was for him to watch me from afar instead of being directly by my side to protect me?
No.
Because it had been easier to be irked with him than face all the terror that comes with loving him. If I wrote off his alpha wolf behavior to overreaction and testosterone, I could at least get some things accomplished—because the alternative was crippling.
Having to deal with thinking about all of this. Watching him in a room that’s too damn silent. Holding my breath as I peer for signs of his. Every other second, swaying from the flood of relief when his chest rises and falls.
His chest, still so pale.
Upon which his arms are crossed…and end with his limp, burned hands…
I blink against the fresh burn behind my eyes and force a sketchy breath in. My exhalation is just as unsteady.
“Hey.” The utterance comes from Sawyer, who’s suddenly appeared by my side. I feel my brows pucker as I struggle for orientation. I didn’t hear him enter the room, let alone cross it to get to me.
“Hey.” I curl one hand against my sternum, wordlessly ordering my heart back beneath my ribs. That’s not the easiest thing once I register the peridot intensity of his gaze. “What is it?” I rasp, following my gut instinct. “What’s wrong, Sawyer?”
“Nothing. Really.” He has to underline the second word when I flash disbelief at the first. “I’m just worried about you.”
He lifts a hand to cup my shoulder. Strange alarms clang in the back of my psyche, and I step away. “I’m fine,” I mutter, rubbing my upper arms with opposite hands.
“You’re not.” He remains still, but I scoot back a little more anyway. “Have you been off your feet at all since we got back?”
I return my stare to Reece—and discover the brief break did me well. I’m able to behold him with fresh eyes. To notice how the burns across his knuckles have faded to dark cobalt. To watch him take deeper breaths past lips that are regaining a little color. Dear God, his beautiful lips…
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
“And he’s going to be, as well.” Again, the soothing tone. Again, my instinct’s odd reaction. But this time, I shake it off. The man stood by Reece through the entire hell back at the hangar. In truth, Sawyer helped save my life too.
“Thanks to you.” I swivel my head, letting my gratitude pour into my gaze now. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you, Sawyer. For…everything.”
He shakes his head, guiding my attention to the damp blond hair playing at the tops of his T-shirt-covered shoulders. He’s probably recently showered. “Skip the lip service, Emma. You can thank me by taking care of yourself.”
“Sure.” I manage a cooperative smile. “Just as soon as—”
“No. Not ‘just as soon as.’ Now.”
No more smile. “Damn it, I’m not leaving him.”
“And I’m not asking you to.” He folds his arms. “You’ll be in the next room, eating the pizza slice that has your name on it. While you’re doing so, Kane can come in and keep an eye on Sleeping Reecy here.”
After just digging in my heels, my spurting giggle feels wrong—but at the same time, all kinds of right. If Sawyer’s seeing enough improvement in Reece to go for the snarky bro-time insults, maybe it’s all right to recharge my own strength while I can. The tiger in my tummy is a persistent reminder that it’s been nearly empty since this time yesterday—with its newest rumbling timed perfectly to the entrance of the straight-from-a-video-game soldier who helped Reece get us the last ten feet from the hangar to the Escalade last night. He’s slightly less scary now in his plain black T-shirt and matching workout pants—but only slightly. The man is a dark brick wall of don’t-fuck-with-me.
Sawyer sweeps a hand between the two of us. “Kane Alighieri, I’m pleased to introduce Emmalina Crist. Emma, this is Kane. We met…well, a while ago. He’s been a trusted friend for a very long time.”
“And I know firsthand why.” I push a smile past my nervousness and extend a hand. “And because of that, I think I owe you huge thanks, too, Mr. Alighieri.”
Kane’s hand literally engulfs mine. “Not necessary, ma’am. But you’re welcome all the same.” Short grunt. “And quit with the ‘Mr. Alighier
i’ shit, or we will have problems.”
“Back at you with the ‘ma’am’ shit,” I volley, though add a wink.
“Understood.” There’s no wink, nor a shade of any matching mood, to his reply. As he pivots and marches toward the easy chair in the corner, he dictates, “Go get yourself some grub. If your man bats an eyelash, I’ll holler.”
“Thanks, Kane.”
I follow it up by tiptoeing over to give Reece a soft kiss through the stubble now turning into a beard, before following Sawyer out into the area where the kitchen, dining area, and living room exist in the same open plan. There’s a small laundry room off the other side of the kitchen, and a doorway off the dining area leads to what looks like basic office space.
While wandering into the kitchen, I spot a second bedroom through a door that’s slightly ajar. Passed out horizontally across the bed in there are Dan Colton and another guy, whom I remember in sketchy spurts from the hurried dash we all made between the parking garage and the apartment. I never got the man’s name, though he’s easy enough to distinguish from Colton in nearly every way possible. Where Colton is ginger and lean-muscled with a trendy corporate crew cut, the second man has nape-hugging waves of jet-black hair and muscles like a lumberjack. They’ve both cast off their boots and shirts and look to be slumbering like the dead. They’re joined in dreamland by my sister and another guy from the rescue team—I think they introduced him as Alex—who are vying for the snoring award on the longer of the two couches, heads on opposite armrests and blankets tucked under their chins.
The only person who’s still awake out here is the fighter I know as Mitch, now wearing a black sweatshirt and jeans as purple as his hair. As he rolls out of the easy chair and starts strolling over in the same smooth move, I admit to being bummed by the apartment’s small size. Watching the guy’s fluid grace is like having a front-row seat to a Cirque show.
Mitch refills his water from the dispenser in the fridge’s door while I load up a paper plate with antipasto salad and two slices of cheese pizza. As my hunger roars with louder vengeance, I sneak a few globs of left-behind cheese and barely suppress a blissful moan. Manna from heaven.
The pizza itself is just as perfect, classic New York style, with dough as soft as a cloud and tomato sauce probably made from scratch. There’s no taste on the planet like a slice of New York pizza, not even in Little Italy back home. I’m beyond tempted to just plant my face and suck up the goodness as fast as possible but mush my hands between my knees while waiting for Mitch to sit as well. Sawyer, who’s pulled out my chair for me, seems content with nursing a bottle of beer.
“You’re not having any?” I inquire him anyway.
“Already did,” he supplies. “Right after we got back here and settled in, I ordered food. We’ve been taking turns on watch duty. I had first shift.”
“I’ve already eaten too,” Mitch explains, sliding into the chair opposite me and stabbing at his helping of the salad. “I’m just a pig.”
“You also annihilated at least ten thousand calories saving my sister and me, so you’re allowed.” I send over a smile before digging in myself. Another moan vibrates my throat at first bite of the Italian meat, cheese, and veggies. Damn, it’s delicious. The LA adage is that food is better at the beach. I’m sure that was coined by someone who’d never eaten after escaping a lunatic bitch and her cutthroat Scooby gang.
“Hope that goes for the rest of us.” The black-haired guy from the bedroom mumbles it while plodding into the room. He stops to extend a long-fingered hand. “Good morn—” He glances at the oven clock. “Errr, afternoon. Don’t think we’ve officially met. Ethan Archer.”
As I return the greeting, I split a bigger smile. “Morning, afternoon, or midnight, you’re still a hero. I’m not sure I’ll ever find any words or any way—”
“Then don’t.” One side of his mouth hitches up. “You’re alive. Use the gratitude to pay it forward, which I understand you were already doing before those pissheads wrecked the night.” He turns for the kitchen, peering over the pizza selections that are still left. “Besides, it was kind of fun. And everyone got out alive. Annnnd the statue for ass-kicking goes to…usssss.”
As he embellishes that with a roar-of-the-crowd sound effect, I widen my gawk. Sawyer, noting my bewilderment, chuckles. “Try to cut Archer some slack. He’s married to a Hollyweird stylist, and some A-listers are her clients.”
Archer grunts. “I’ve been living awards season for three months now, and it’s not happening for three more months.”
“Hold up. Can we get back to the ‘kind of fun’ part?” I dart my stare between both of them now. “Kind of fun?”
Mitch inserts himself back into the discussion with a soft laugh. “We know that sounds insane from where you’re sitting, but keep in mind that between Sawyer and the five of us, you had nearly seventy-five years of top-shelf spy-guy experience on that op last night.”
“Truth.” Ethan pumps a fist with one hand while popping a beer with the other, which doesn’t help my confusion one damn bit. Sawyer, who hasn’t stopped scrutinizing me with an odd kind of attention, comes at once to my rescue.
“I think what they’re trying to say is, none of us went into this thing as greenhorns, Emma.” He tilts his head, contemplation taking over his face. “You know how some guys like to go shoot the Banzai Pipeline or drop out of a helicopter to ski down some face in the Alps? Well…”
Seriously? I communicate as much with my bold side-eye. “You telling me Faline and her stunt were your version of the Alps?”
“Yodel-leigh-hee-hoo,” Ethan deadpans.
“You all could have died.”
“And extreme sportsmen don’t?” Sawyer banters.
I shake my head. “I need to go check on Reece.” Before I smack them up the sides of their heads.
But I’m not an inch out of my seat before Sawyer is dragging me back down, a gentle hand around my wrist. “No. You need to eat.”
“While you guys sit around and joke about a maniac like Faline?”
“Should’ve heard my one-liners about the punks in the Sulu Province,” Ethan quips.
“Don’t get him started,” Mitch mutters.
“Don’t get me started,” Ethan adds.
“You really should eat,” Mitch emphasizes. “A warrior’s caretaker needs as much care and sustenance as the warrior.”
“They don’t mention that in the superhero girlfriend’s handbook, do they?” The satire in Sawyer’s tone is backed by the glints in his gaze.
I oblige with a small laugh, though it swiftly peters out. “Hell,” I mumble. “If only there was a handbook.”
“Well, you’ve got a support team right now, so take advantage of it,” Mitch states. “Your man’s in good hands. My beloved knows what he’s doing.”
A girl knows she’s living an extraordinary existence when the least surprising thing she’s learned all day centers on a purple-haired ninja and Rambo’s heir apparent being each other’s “beloved.” Even more stunning is the realization that I believe Mitch. No matter what state in which Reece wakes up—and dear God, I have to believe he will—Kane will be more than able to handle it.
For the first time in the last twenty-four hours, I take my first truly relaxed breath.
Which lasts all of ten seconds.
Before I decide to take Mitch up on his advice and make full use of the three good minds joining me at this table. “So.” I ping each of the men with a determined gaze before plunging on. “If this were the Sulu Province, what would you guys be deciding to do now?”
“Besides bugging the fuck out of here?” Ethan answers at once.
“Correct,” Mitch volleys. “In most cases.”
“Huh?” Ethan blurts.
Sawyer, with his phone now propped on its holder stand, swipes to a screen displaying a live video feed of what nearly became my murder site—the hangar at Teterboro. I know this because there are a bunch of cops swarming the floor, examinin
g the net that Lydia and I scrambled from and at least ten bodies of bad guys. I close my eyes for a second, thanking God again that my own blood and body parts aren’t in that mix.
“Well,” Ethan huffs, noticing the same thing we all do about the feed. There’s one key thing missing from the scene. One sleek private jet. “Looks like the witch beat us to the punch.”
“With her tail between her legs,” Sawyer adds. There’s no pleasure in his voice, and I understand why. If Faline has been summoned back to the Source by the Consortium, she’ll be getting the same punishment that Angelique faced when Reece escaped their showdown back in Los Angeles. The memory of Angelique’s mottled skull almost makes me feel sorry for Faline.
Almost.
There’s still all the baggage about the bitch trying to kill ’Dia and me like geese tossed into an airplane turbine.
Yeah. There’s that.
“Too bad I couldn’t break those legs first.”
The comeback to Sawyer’s claim is issued by a source none of us expect—and has me surging from my seat before he can do anything about it. As if any man, even as ripped as Sawyer, could hold me back from running to my sister right now. Then hauling her into a fierce hug. Then letting the tears flow, full of humbleness and thankfulness and love, just as hers do. Then holding her tighter even though she tries to pull away and slam her mask of don’t-worry-be-happy back on. Then feeling the acquiescence of her body as she realizes I see her—I see her—and I’m making it okay for her to just be her.
Because that’s what sisters do, even if they haven’t just been through hell and back together. Because that’s what sisters are for, especially when they’ve been through hell and back together.
“It’s okay.” I whisper it as I stroke the back of her head and the top of her spine, giving her safe shelter in which to succumb to her exhaustion. “It’s okay, my sweet ’Dia.”
In so many ways, it’s the same kind of haven for me too. We can both be strong again in a second, but this unique moment is for the necessity of our mutual wallow. And though I’m sure all the guys at the table, in their own unique ways, understand portions of what’s slamming us right now, none of them can be her. The same person who helped me with geometry homework. Who consoled me when that homework frustrated me enough to throw my textbook, which wound up ripping my Leo DiCaprio poster when it hit the wall. Who gave Tasha Northam a black eye for calling me “brace face.”
