Though, of all of them, Winter’s Romanian didn’t look as mistrusting as he usually did. He looked rather more … understanding.
But that was something Synek didn’t want from him.
“I’m fine,” he said without looking up, searching for the pack of cigarettes he was sure he’d tossed on the bedside table the night before, though they were nowhere to be found.
Had they been back in London, Winter might have let him be—at least for longer than the five seconds it took before she spoke again. “You almost died, Syn. They tortured you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered, slapping his hand down on the nightstand as he straightened. “Where are my smokes?”
“Synek, I’m serious.”
He could count on one hand the number of times Winter had ever raised her voice at him, and usually, it was during one of his benders when he went so far off the deep end, she worried whether he had any intention of coming back.
He could count on less than two fingers the number of times she’d ever used his full name.
For the first time since she’d entered his borrowed room, he turned to look at her—actually look at her—and noted the dark shadows beneath her eyes. The way her usually carefully styled hair was in a lackluster bun.
She looked weary and nothing like herself.
He was responsible for that.
“Come now, little miss. I’m fine.” This time, he attempted to soften his tone as he pulled her to him, wanting to wipe that worry and fear off her face. “I’m still right here.”
“Yeah, but for how long? You’ve been running from the Wraiths since we met. I don’t think if they catch you a second time, they’ll be willing to torture you again. They’ll just kill you.”
She wasn’t wrong. “That’s why I need to take care of this.”
“But you can’t do it on your own,” she said with a shake of her head. “Let me help you.”
“I can’t have that, Winter. If any of them hurt you in any way, I wouldn’t react well. You know that.”
He wished the look of disappointment on her face wasn’t a common one when it came to him, but beyond the fleeting moments of happiness—most of which came when she was younger and easily impressed—this was all he’d ever been able to give her.
And knowing that was how he realized she would never be happy with him as a partner. He was a selfish bastard through and through, and even though he loved her more than he loved himself, sometimes love wasn’t enough.
And despite what she liked to think, her love, platonic or otherwise, would never be able to fix him.
“Then call one of the mercenaries and have them watch your back. At least have some sort of support there. I can be here with schematics and things. Safe, but helping.”
Knowing she would never take no for an answer, he lied to appease her. “I’ll call Red. I’m sure he’d like to get in on it.”
Her shoulders visibly relaxed, her relief obvious. “Good. That’s good.”
“Now, my smokes?”
“Yeah, fine. If you must.”
She turned to the door as Synek did the same, neither of them realizing Tăcut had been standing there watching them. His expression was unreadable, but Synek could guess what the other man was thinking.
They were too close.
The line between him and Winter had always been a blurry one, made more so because it wasn’t a secret to anyone—except to Synek for a while—that Winter had had romantic feelings toward him, and during one night of drunken stupidity, he’d slept with her back in his flat in London.
He hadn’t wanted to admit at the time that Winter’s feelings weren’t innocent. He’d seen the signs, but keeping her close had been the only thing he’d cared about. He wanted her to himself.
Coincidentally, that was right before she’d met the Romanian currently staring him down.
Winter touched his chest as she swept by him, but he didn’t follow behind her as she left. Instead, he remained in the mouth of the door.
Synek grabbed the bag filled with his things from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. “Listen, mate, let’s not have a row, yeah? I feel like shit, and I’m not in the mood for the silent treatment, you get me?”
Tăcut’s inability to speak was known to most, but if Synek’s dig at it bothered him, he didn’t show it.
He started to sign, his hands making gestures Synek wouldn’t understand even if he wanted to. “I’m not going to understand that. Winter learned because she’s a bleeding heart and knew a bloke back in Arizona.”
“That’s what I’m here for, asshole.”
Fang.
As much of a surly bastard as Red used to be before he met his wife, Fang had a perpetual chip on his shoulder. Though, if the rumors were true, he had someone too. Except he was still a little cunt.
“As much as I’d love a good fight,” Synek said as he rubbed the back of his neck, already feeling his sore muscles, “I’m not in the mood, so I’m liable to just shoot one of you fuckers if it means I can leave this room.”
Neither looked particularly bothered by his words and seemed to wait for him to finish speaking before Răzvan started signing again, and Fang translated.
“As stupid as you usually are, this is new, even for you. You’re going to get yourself killed going after whoever they were in your current state.”
Synek ground his teeth. The last thing he needed was someone pointing out his weaknesses. “I’ve taken on blokes twice your size with double your skill with my arm broken. I don’t need you lot concerned about me.”
“I don’t,” Fang said, with the same level of dryness reflected on Tăcut’s face. “But it’ll break her heart if something happens to you. Even if you brought it on yourself.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”
Răzvan stepped toward him, brought up short when Fang stretched an arm out in front of him.
“Do you even give a shit that you’re hurting her? You get that, don’t you?”
No, he understood that very well.
He just didn’t know any other way of being.
“If you’re done …”
He didn’t look as if he was remotely finished, but Winter was back, looking among the three of them with narrowed eyes as if she sensed the growing agitation.
“Here,” she said, offering him the small bag she carried.
Synek offered a soft thanks before peeking inside, finding his smokes and a rubber band wrapped around a freshly printed passport, license, and an assortment of other identifications should he need them.
“I will call Red to see if you talked to him,” she warned, “so don’t think you’re going to walk out of here and that’ll be the end of it.”
He knew she would, not that it mattered.
Because once he walked out of this loft, he had no intention of ever stepping foot back inside.
Chapter 12
No one knew about the apartment Synek kept in the Bronx.
He rarely, if ever, stepped foot inside it since he’d rented it. He only made sure the rent and bills were paid for the year in case he ever came back. The security in hotels was shit, and it wasn’t hard at all to find at least one person willing to accept a bundle of cash in exchange for a room number and access—he’d learned that the hard way once in Canada.
Instead, Synek had found a little rundown spot in desperate need of repair that wouldn’t attract too much attention. Probably why he enjoyed the Hall as much as he did. To the untrained eye, it looked like nothing but crumbling brick and overgrown weeds.
He saw the bones, though. The character.
Mumbling thanks to the driver who’d pick him up outside the loft, he slid from the back seat, jogging down the front steps to his door. Digging out his keys, he winced as his still sensitive knuckles brushed over the denim.
He’d undersold it to Winter earlier. He still felt like shit, and probably would for another few weeks at least. Years of practice kept hi
m standing upright, but he wasn’t at full strength just yet, and if he intended to take care of his Wraith problem, he had to push through it.
Inside the apartment, he tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, slowly making his way through the living room to make sure nothing was out of place—not that there was much to see in that regard. It had been at least thirteen months since he’d last been here, and the place had the stale scent that came from being closed off for a while. Nothing an open window and a can of air freshener couldn’t fix.
There was no furniture in the apartment save a small but stained coffee table and an old beat-up couch that looked like it belonged in a trash bin instead of being someone’s bed, but of all the places in the world where he’d slept, Synek had yet to find anything that topped the ratty old thing he’d found years ago outside a store having a going-out-of-business sale.
Stripping out of his clothes, Synek tossed them on the floor, walking naked into his bathroom. He bypassed the mirror entirely. He already knew he was a mess—he didn’t need his reflection to tell him that.
He cut on the water in the bathtub, pulling the stopper up to cut on the shower. He didn’t bother waiting for the water to heat before he stepped inside, closing his eyes as the freezing water slammed into his back, but it was an agony he enjoyed.
Goose bumps broke out on his skin, making him more aware of each stinging droplet. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his arms, and sighed in relief as the temperature finally rose, turning from freezing cold to scalding hot.
Synek stood there for a long while, letting the heated water soothe his aching muscles until he was relaxed enough to move with minimum pain. By the time he was back out again with a towel around his shoulders and his legs encased in black denim, his aches were a distant memory.
From the closet of the bedroom, he lifted a trunk off the top shelf, carrying it back out into the living room where he dropped it on the table and sunk onto the cushions of the couch.
He dug around the pocket of his leather jacket for the pack of cigarettes he had tucked away, along with his trusty Zippo lighter. Once the nicotine was burning in his lungs and the wash of calm that came after coursed through him, he was ready to start.
Inside the trunk was everything he had on the Wraiths.
Names.
Dates.
Locations.
Everything.
Funny that he’d thought of throwing it all out once he’d finally gotten shot of them and joined the Den. Some memories weren’t worth holding, and the arrogant side of him had always thought he’d never have a reason to use any of it since he was good with a knife.
But that wasn’t good enough.
He needed to make them answer for what they did.
His mind demanded it.
They’d spilled his blood, and now, it was his turn to do the same.
But he wouldn’t just stop at Johnny or Rosalie. He had something for all of them.
When he’d hung from the wall, Rosalie had thought they had him at a disadvantage, that the pain he suffered would warp his mind worse than it already was, but they’d forgotten that pain also made him focus.
Out of the trunk, he pulled three files—the only three he would need for what he had planned. Across the top were their names.
Rosalie.
Johnny.
Bear.
As he dragged in another lungful of smoke, he tossed the files down beside him before reaching for the bag he’d had at the loft. There was one more he needed.
After he plucked the manila folder from inside, he flipped it open, his gaze drawn to the picture clipped to the documents inside.
Iris.
It was a candid shot, one Winter had captured from a traffic camera two weeks ago—something he’d asked her to do nearly the second he’d woken up at the loft after they’d come for him.
Then, his only concern was making sure he paid her back tenfold for her part in his capture, but after a conversation with Winter nearly a week ago, his plans had changed.
He’d thought Winter and the Romanians found him through some sort of tracking only Winter could manage, and though that was part of it, it had ultimately been because Iris agreed to give them his location.
But only after Winter agreed to give her information on Governor Michael Spader.
What were the odds she wanted information about the man he’d been tasked with getting information from?
It seemed it wasn’t just the Wraiths he wasn’t finished with.
With everything Winter had gathered on her, it would make tracking her easier.
She was getting a visit first.
After dropping her equipment next to her desk once she arrived back home hours later, Iris headed into her bathroom, washing her face free of makeup and changing out of her jeans for a pair of yoga pants.
When she looked in the mirror, she almost didn’t recognize who stared back at her. She looked more tired than usual due to the long nights spent analyzing and poring over everything Winter had given her, comparing it to what she already knew. That, combined with making sure she stayed off the Wraiths’ radar, she was bone-tired and couldn’t wait to get to bed most nights.
Considering the damage the Wild Bunch wrought rescuing Synek, there was still a chance they were recovering from that, but sooner than later, they would come back around—she just had to make sure she was gone before they did.
Iris pulled the rubber band from her hair as she hit the light switch and stepped back out of the bathroom, massaging the tension in her scalp away as she eyed her bed, but the farther she walked into her bedroom, the more something felt … off.
As far as she could see from where she was standing, her apartment was empty. The windows allowed enough light to bleed in that she could see most of the space with one turn of her head. Nothing was out of place.
The sheets on her bed were still rumpled from her restless sleep this morning.
Papers still lay in disarray across her desk and along the floor in front of it.
Old food containers she needed to throw out were still open on the coffee table.
Fine.
Everything was fine.
Yet she was still cautious as she took a step forward, walking quickly to her front door and making sure the lock was turned before engaging the deadbolt.
She was about to turn when a voice whispered in her ear, “Do you know what I was before the Wraiths got me?”
Synek.
She spun, but there was no chance to move any farther as his hands suddenly came up to grip her upper arms, shoving her back against the door.
It was completely irrational, considering his tight hold on her and the fact that he had even managed to get into her apartment without her realizing, but the first thing she noticed about him was how tired he looked. Like staring at a reflection of herself.
He was a shade heavier than he’d been weeks ago, his pale skin still paler than usual, but the weight loss brought out the contours of his face, making his cheekbones almost appear stark.
Belatedly, she realized he’d asked her a question, but he didn’t need a response from her before he was holding something up for her to see.
Her wallet.
“I was a pickpocket.”
She instinctively reached for her jeans pocket, forgetting she had changed out of them. “That’s not possible,” she muttered, even as she stared at the evidence in his hand. “How?”
“You were looking for the Wraiths, but you weren’t looking for me.”
He wasn’t wearing black, she realized as she looked at him.
Now, he was in a white T-shirt with a hoodie and light jean jacket over the top. Though his boots were the same as he’d worn the first time they’d met, his jeans were gray with slashes in the knees.
Her eye was trained to notice dark clothing and leather and chains. If she saw him out on the street, she wouldn’t have looked twice at him.
“Go on then,” he said, drawing her attentio
n back up to his face. “Beg for your life.”
A part of her wanted to, but her pride made her tilt her chin up. “I won’t beg you for anything.”
“Not even if it meant sparing your life?”
She didn’t respond—she let her silence talk for her.
“I’ve thought about this moment every day since I woke up in that goddamn room. Pictured it a thousand different ways, but I didn’t think it would be this easy.” He shook his head as if disappointed in her. “I thought you’d at least put up a fight.”
“If you’re going to kill me, I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of my fear too.”
“Then give me a reason I shouldn’t,” he said, surprising her.
“I saved your life.”
“Bullshit. You tricked and drugged me.”
“And eventually helped you escape.”
“They tortured me,” he said savagely, the sudden change in demeanor making her breath catch as her real fear slithered down her spine.
“I’m …” She didn’t have a response to that. She knew very well what they had done to him in the few days they’d had him locked away. “Sorry.”
Her answer seemed to surprise him, but she hadn’t lied. She was sorry he’d been tortured. She was even sorry she had a hand in it at all, especially knowing what she did now.
Synek released her arms, but he didn’t step away. “Not yet, you’re not. But we’ll get there. Tell me, why are you interested in Governor Spader.”
Iris tensed. “None of your business.”
“If I’m asking about it, I’m obviously making it my business.”
“The better question is why are you?”
Though she had a feeling she already knew the answer to that.
The day Synek caught her, she hadn’t thought he would hesitate in killing her for what she had done to him, but considering he was standing here, had hardly hurt her in any way, and seemed to want to carry on a conversation, he wasn’t here to kill her.
She’d suspected the Kingmaker had some interest in the governor and that was why he was there that day—though she hadn’t seen him anywhere near the man since—and now that she knew Synek worked for him, that had to be the reason he hadn’t harmed her.
Syn. Page 13
