Alexi gagged, veins rising across his forehead. His eyelids fluttered. Closed. His hands dropped away from Max, arms limp. His whole body seemed to collapse in.
“Ohhh, God…,” I wailed, my hands on Max’s as his fingers loosened and he dropped Alexi’s body to the floor.
Panting, Max rocked back on his heels, his eyes losing their wildness. “Shit,” he whispered.
I smacked him—a crack of my hand across his cheek—a second before Wanda knocked me to the floor.
Pietr straddled us in a sprinter’s pose, lips peeled back from teeth already lengthening.
Max’s eyes flared, his face stretching. The noise of joints slipping wetly from their sockets warned his body was beginning the shift.
I grabbed Pietr’s arm, a mad attempt at begging him to stop. But backing down wasn’t in his nature.
Wanda shoved me away from them, pushing me against the love seat. “He nearly shut down that dominant wolf response. What were you thinking? Trigger it again—aim it at you?”
“No…” My eyes blurred. So did Pietr’s and Max’s forms, their spines rippling as the wolves inside wriggled free of human clothes and human skins.
“No!” I screamed.
Jaws snapped, teeth clicking cruelly together as they dove for each other. Pietr, fully furred, the tall, dark hair along his back rising in a thick crest, circled Max until his shoulder struck a side table.
Max pulled up to his full height on all fours, a reminder to Pietr of the difference in their size. The love seat’s carved legs bit into my back, and I yelled, “Pietr! Drop! Submit!”
I covered my face as Max lunged at him. Pietr twisted out of the way, letting Max vault past. And slam into the wall.
A photo of St. Basil’s Cathedral crashed onto Max’s back and he shook it off, spraying the room with tiny shards of glass like a biting rain. Max growled, the noise rising from the darkest part of him. He spun, claws gripping the floor, shifting the carpet and gouging the hardwood as he launched himself at Pietr again.
With a woof he connected, rolling Pietr into a table that collapsed on them both.
Pietr tore free of Max’s toothy grip and the tang of blood stained the air. Pietr rose, red trickling from a slice in his shoulder. Shaking out his pelt, he spattered the room with crimson.
I blinked, reaching up to touch something warm and wet on my cheek. Blood on my fingertip, a tremor rocked me.
Pietr charged, heading right and turning left at the last moment—a bold feint—cutting under and up, his back on the floor. Belly up, his teeth locked on Max’s throat.
Wanda stood, going for the gun under her shirt.
“No!” I leaped up, wrenching her hand away.
“This can’t end well,” she snapped.
“Keep your hand off the gun,” I said, looking down at Pietr lying in his wolfskin, jaws clamped on his brother’s throat, prepared to crush his windpipe or open a jugular.
Max whined. Pietr readjusted his grip.
“He’ll kill him,” Wanda stated.
“No.” Before I’d thought my actions through, I was beside Max, arched across his back and neck, staring into Pietr’s eyes. “Let go, Pietr.”
His jaws moved. Chewing.
Max whimpered.
“His eyes are glazing,” Wanda said.
“Do you see me?” I leaned over further, unbalanced by more than my precarious posture. I reached out to place my hands on either side of Pietr’s head.
“Don’t touch him,” Wanda warned. “He’ll bite your hand off as happily as he’ll lap up his own brother’s blood.”
Pietr snarled as if in agreement. Startled, I yanked my hands away.
“Unbutton your shirt.”
I whipped around to see Catherine leaning against the door frame. “What?”
She shrugged. “We’re animals, after all, Jessie. Survival and dominance drive us. Pietr’s deep in his desire to dominate, and Max isn’t smart enough to submit.”
“She’s right,” Alexi coughed, rolling over to watch with detached curiosity. “Give him something else to focus on.”
“I doubt unbuttoning my shirt will get Pietr’s attention.”
“You might be surprised,” Alexi muttered.
My gaze flicked to Wanda.
“Do what you have to before I do what I have to.” She tapped the holster snuggled just beneath her shirt.
Max started sliding forward, eyelids drooping. I fumbled at my top button.
“Pietr,” I whispered, stooping back over to catch his eyes. The first button opened.
Pietr’s eyes narrowed.
I opened the second button. “Pietr, don’t do this,” I pleaded, focusing my eyes on his. He watched my fingers work, watched them tremble and flounder. His eyes widened when he got a glimpse of more bare skin.
“You’re no monster.” I drew down a deep breath. This was not what I’d ever imagined as a moment with my werewolf ex-boyfriend. Not me unbuttoning my shirt. And not in front of an audience.
I tried to think of it as an actress playing a part with a strange actor. Necessary. But nothing to do with anyone’s relationship. I fought back the fact I’d earned a D in Drama. My life now should rate extra credit.
The third button opened, and the tension left Pietr’s jaws. He let go. There was a clunk as the back of his head hit the floor. He rolled to right himself, lying on his furry stomach, canine attention absolutely fixed, tongue lolling. To the credit of his animal instincts his eyes stayed hopeful, entranced by what remained beyond button four.
Max flopped to the floor with a whine. One eye still open, it also lingered on my fourth button expectantly.
Catherine howled and I blushed, buttoning up in record time.
“What have I said, Jessie? Men can be total dogs,” Wanda said, blousing her shirt around her holster.
I kept my eyes on her to avoid the distraction of two naked guys slipping back into the clothes their wolflike counterparts always slinked out of.
Max spoke first, back in his pants and running his hand through his tangled hair. “Thanks, Jessie,” he said coyly. “For everything.” He grinned and rubbed the wicked bruise already fading on his throat.
Pietr’s head snapped up, the first rumblings of a growl beginning. Blood streaked his shoulder, but the long cut mended as I watched.
I stomped a foot. “See that, Pietr Rusakova?”
He rolled his eyes from my foot to my face, only pausing briefly on my shirt’s buttons on the way up. “Da,” he said thickly.
“That is me putting my foot down. No fighting with family.”
He arched an eyebrow at me.
“And don’t expect me to”—my tongue tangled in my mouth and heat rose to color my cheeks—“to do that for you again, either.” I crossed my arms.
His lips twitched. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he whispered.
Max snorted. “It’s all you’ll be dreaming of now, little brother!”
I kicked him in the leg. Not hard. But it was better than getting his attention by unbuttoning part of my shirt again. Far more satisfying, too. “You almost got your head chewed off.”
“Because you threatened Jess,” Pietr said levelly.
Max rubbed his jaw, remembering my slap.
My hand ached. Max was thick-skulled in more than one way. I’d probably remember the slap longer than he would.
“I’d never hurt Jessie.”
“Damn rrright you won’t,” Pietr said.
Heart in my throat, I reminded myself this wasn’t about me. This was stupid alpha and beta wolf stuff, nothing more. I was territory to piss on. And man, did it piss me off.
Max looked at me and lowered his gaze. Submitting for now. “Sorry, Jessie. Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine,” I insisted. “Why is everyone so worried about me? Ask Alexi how he’s doing.”
Alexi bowed his head, looking away.
“We’d have to care before we’d ask,” Max said, his simple logic chillin
g.
“He’s been your brother for years,” I reminded them.
Catherine frowned. “He’s played our brother for years. He is no relation. We share no blood or DNA. No kinship.”
“But you share a bond.”
Three pairs of eyes met mine. Assessed me as if they were once again more wolf, more ferociously feral, than not.
“The bond of your secret.”
“And that means he’s a liability,” Max stated.
“Am I a liability, Max?” I stepped forward.
Wanda hissed. “Do you have a death wish?”
“I know the same thing Alexi does. Will you try to kill me?”
“Don’t you have any common sense?” Wanda wondered aloud. “Nonconfrontational!”
“Well, Max? When will you try to choke the life out of me?”
Max dragged a finger along the carpet’s edge. “I won’t.” One shoulder rose. “You’re strange—”
“Says a werewolf,” I muttered. Wanda swore. And not for the first time since we’d entered the room.
Max smirked. “I trust you, Jessie. I used to trust him. But now, he just needs to go.”
“Unfortunately that won’t work. He’s the only one of legal age to play guardian,” Wanda pointed out.
“A few months from now…,” Max growled as he rose, reminding us all of his upcoming eighteenth birthday. He crossed his arms and widened his stance, readying for a confrontation.
With a sigh, Wanda continued. “If he goes, you all wind up wards of the state.”
“Foster care,” I realized.
“Yes. Probably split apart because groups are harder to place.”
The three full-blood Rusakovas grumbled.
Alexi sat up straighter, rubbing his neck with slow and ginger hands.
“How do we trust him again?” Pietr voiced a subtle protest.
“Maybe you don’t. Remember: ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,’ ” Wanda quoted.
“Good advice,” Max agreed. “Exactly why we keep you around.”
“We should go,” Wanda suggested, snaring my arm. Obeying, I felt Pietr’s gaze follow us out the door and all the way to Wanda’s car.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dad opened the door and I slid along the metal wall, whispering soothing words to Rio as I backed her out of the trailer. All around us horses and riders warmed up for the Golden Jumper. I’d have to thank Derek for getting me in—and thank him again for not attending. I told him I needed to focus. It was true.
I was returning to normalcy.
This would be my first jumper competition since Mom’s death. As much as I’d practiced, and as good as Rio was, I knew the stands would be quieter without Mom intermittently screaming and gasping for us.
I reached for my worry stone but wanted the amber heart pendant. Some sort of anchor. That morning I had put Mom’s netsuke rabbit necklace on. Warm against my skin, it was solid. A connection to my past. “Let’s walk,” I said to Rio. “Stretch those legs.”
Dad glanced my way, his face filled with what mine hid. He was forever beside Mom at these things, Annabelle Lee following. This was hard on all of us. The truck pulled away.
I eyed the course. Eight jumps; one very wet-looking liverpool. Totally doable. Rio pranced, eager for eventing. This was more than a competition—a way to return to a part of my life I’d nearly lost when I lost Mom—it was a reward for Rio.
When Pietr turned a cold shoulder and Annabelle Lee was wedged deep in a book and I had no one but Dad looking at me with disappointment deep in his eyes, it was Rio I went to. She deserved to have some fun on a jump full of rails and water.
I did, too. There was no lying between horse and rider. Every move she made, every muscle she twitched told a subtle truth I recognized and read. And the only way to win a jumper competition was with good communication.
Open and honest.
When Pietr and I fell apart, Rio and I grew together.
It was only right Rio got to play over fences and race through the flats and mixed terrain of an exciting course. I wanted her happy. And if I won?
Bonus.
A number of riders in my class had already gone when Georgia Main was announced. I moved Rio back so I could watch. The time started, and she raced through the course, her horse—one I’d admired a while—nimbly approaching fences and flying, beautifully, over each one. A nearly flawless run—a great time, but I knew enough about Georgia to know she’d be humble about her performance. Being a rising star didn’t go to her head.
They announced us and I mounted, guiding us onto the field. I snugged my helmet’s chinstrap and waited for the signal. Scanning the crowd I found Dad and Annabelle Lee in the stands. Annabelle Lee set aside her book to watch.
But something else caught my eye. Not one to fit in easily with the jumper crowd myself—they were polished, elegant and generally moneyed—I easily noticed others who didn’t fit the given mold. And there were several of them. Men. Broad-shouldered, tall, with a rigidity to their stance and a hard expression that spoke of surviving tough times.
They seemed more uncomfortable here than a novice rider on her first course. Not the regular crowd. Although they stood apart from one another, they seemed to communicate. A glance from one to another, the raising of one cell phone moments before the next.
One of them looked toward the stands. Then two. Three. And four. All at once they were staring at Dad and Annabelle Lee. The crowd was peppered with werewolves, not the type that made my blood hot, but those that chilled me—marked men—Mafia.
Rio leaped forward when the signal sounded, snatching me from my fear. It was a public place. Crowded. Dad and Annabelle Lee would be fine. I focused on the task at hand—helping Rio show how amazing she was when she leaped and soared.
A beautiful beast, Rio’s legs folded high and evenly, her neck stretched, graceful as a swan’s over each jump. Ears pricked forward, she ignored the stress I telegraphed.
I wasn’t worried about the course; I was worried about what would come after. If we flew through the jumps cleanly we’d have to ride out and get Dad and Annabelle Lee’s attention, hoping we could get to the truck before the Mafia made their move.
But if we didn’t jump cleanly …
Rio never faltered, though my heart thudded in opposition to her hoofbeats. She took the verticals easily until we headed over a broad oxer, two rails across. Her hind hoof clipped the rail, and I took my chance.
I slipped from the saddle, falling as the crowd groaned. Tuck. Roll. It sounded so simple, but it was bone-jarring—my back popped, my legs tangled, and my teeth rattled with the impact.
I came to a stop, face first, in the turf.
Ow.
Rio stepped back around, nudging me with her nose and snuffling, confused.
Medics rushed me, fingers probing my neck and easing me into a collar before they rolled me onto a board and lifted me.
“I’m okay,” I assured them. But not too much.
Rio was walked out with me, her head bobbing alongside, ears twitching as she snorted.
“I’m okay,” I repeated.
Off the course Annabelle Lee and Dad caught up to us.
“Seriously,” I said, watching the Mafia men group and disperse. “I’m okay. I want to go home.”
Dad looked at the medics. “Does she check out?”
“We’ll look her over in the ambulance,” they said. “You can pull alongside.”
Dad took Rio and scrambled to get the truck and Annabelle Lee situated. Watching them go I considered holding my breath until they reappeared.
“Jessie,” a voice called, and I turned to see Georgia. Ow. “I never thought I’d see you fall,” she admitted. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The medics helped me stand. “I’m fine.” They shone a light in my eyes, and I resisted swatting them. “Hey. Congratulations on a nearly flawless course.”
Georgia ducked her head and smiled.
“Gracie�
�s a great horse.” Someone grabbed me for a pulse. It would escalate if the Mafia reappeared. “Don’t you have to go and accept a prize or something? You don’t want to be late.”
“Yeah. I thought you two would blow past us. I kinda wish you had. It would have been a great comeback story.”
“Things change,” I said, struggling to keep the smile alive on my lips when I realized I’d quoted Pietr. “You totally deserved the win.”
She smiled and headed toward the waiting judges.
The medics announced what I’d been betting on. “She’ll be stiff, a little bruised, but other than that, she’s fine.”
They eased me into the truck, and Dad got us home quickly. The whole way I watched the side-view mirror, wondering why we hadn’t been followed—hoping I was wrong about the men lurking in the Golden Jumper’s crowd.
* * *
At home I pulled up Google. If I was going to deal with Russian Mafia members, I wanted to know something about them. This time I’d gotten lucky.
Not surprisingly, Russian Mafia members looked like many men. It was like Nickolai had said, many of them started as good men—military men—who returned home from war to find the promises their government made weren’t kept. Disillusioned and without support, they turned to the streets for survival.
The mob took them in. Trained them and gave them new orders. They were to have no family outside the mob. No affiliations. No connections. What they had, they took. In the mob there was only honor in what I’d been taught was dishonest dealing. Men who once protected Russia now carved her apart because they didn’t see another choice.
And now they were here.
I wanted to see pictures—were there some I’d recognize? But my search produced a whole other world of images. A world filled with nearly as much ink as blood. Tattoos branded mafiosos as participants in Russia’s underworld.
Even the saber marking the full-blood Rusakovas was a military insignia and an increasingly common tattoo for Mafia men in America. They called themselves “werewolves”—human and slyly unnoticed by day; they reveled in people presuming them monsters by night.
Seated before my computer I was astonished by the life stories that could be read in a mobster’s tattoos. Each spire on a church represented a murder committed. A spiderweb illustrated being tangled up in addiction. A pair of stars on their chest or knees meant they were captains in the Mafia’s own military.
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