“A friend of mine who creates gadgets for MI6 gave me a few small devices while I was in London today. He promised me they would go undetected.” Emilia turned to the side, offering her profile.
“Why not send someone in The League to Edinburgh instead? Why chance going yourselves?” Adam proposed.
“Honestly? The only people I trust with the plan are in this room,” Sebastian answered, then looked to the rest of us for our opinion, and we all nodded in agreement.
“So, we get the backup blackmail photos of Sean and Bridgette. Plant the device. Listen and wait for Monaco. Then we get the proof we need of her and Atlas and share the photos with her husband,” Alessia summarized. “The two territorial alphas will go at each other, and that’s when we make our move, the one we’ve spent twenty months preparing for.”
“The final takedown,” Cole said in awe like we’d all been chasing this elusive unicorn, and now it was finally within our reach. Cole was also eager because I knew my cousin was ready to have kids with Alessia, but he was holding off until we destroyed The Alliance.
“The Russian Petrov family is ready to help,” Emilia began. “Our American allies. And more. They’re all waiting for our call. I think it’s time.”
“But are we okay with sacrificing a potentially innocent woman in the process?” Adam lifted his palms as if he were on the verge of surrendering a fight. “We good with that?”
“Bridgette is in bed with the enemy,” Alessia spoke up in defense of Emilia’s plan. “That makes her as guilty as her father, husband, and her lover.”
“You can’t sleep with a killer without getting a little of the blood they’ve shed on your hands.” Emilia directed her words my way. I felt them in my bones.
And why the hell did those words feel like a warning?
Chapter Six
Emilia
“I’d never tell you how to do your job, but—”
“Sounds like you’re about to,” I cut off Sebastian, mentally prepping for some type of lecture from him as we talked over the phone.
The valet standing outside the hotel was patiently waiting for me to exit my vehicle, but I needed to finish this call with Sebastian. His name popped up on my mobile just as I pulled into the porte cochére, and I had a feeling this was a call I didn’t want to take while walking through the lobby.
“Just maybe call for backup next time. The team said there was a lot of blood,” Sebastian spoke in a low but steady voice, clearly doing his best to tiptoe around his “not telling me what to do” declaration.
“Not my blood.” Mostly not. I set my free hand to the fresh cut on my side and winced in pain.
“Mmhm.” He was quiet for a moment, and I was waiting for the real reason he called. “When are we telling the others about your connection to Atlas?”
Ever since our meeting Wednesday night, I’d been wondering when he was going to ask that. “I don’t have a connection to Atlas.”
“You know what I mean.” The man sounded borderline broody just now, and I doubted it was because of me.
“Where are you?”
“Late night working at the club. I missed dinner again and—”
“Hoping you don’t get banished to the couch?” I attempted a laugh, but it came out more like a coyote moaning from pain. “Anyway, we’ll tell them about Chanel. Maybe after Christmas. I know I can’t keep my past a secret from them if we’re going to go after Atlas.” I grabbed the weapons bag on the passenger seat and exited the BMW. “I have to go. Talk soon.” I ended the call before Sebastian had a chance to say more.
He’d been overly patient with me once I’d learned Chanel’s father and grandfather had died, passing on the leader role to her brother. I owed him a lot for that.
“Good evening,” the valet said while taking my keys. He had on a festive but hideous Christmas jumper, something I doubted I’d be able to pull off even in a do-or-die moment.
I smiled at him, then did my best to hide my pain and not hobble my way through the lobby of Sebastian’s hotel. I stayed in one of the two penthouses on the top level whenever in town, and I didn’t need anyone calling him up to confirm his suspicions—that I was bleeding.
I had a thick gauze bandage covering the wound beneath my clothes, but I could feel the blood beginning to seep through, and it’d be a matter of minutes before a trail of evidence followed me.
Thankfully, no one appeared to notice so far, and I made it safely inside the lift.
When a big guy wearing a cowboy hat and brown leather jacket attempted to enter the lift with me, I stepped forward forcefully, swallowing a wince. “Back off, cowboy. I’m riding alone.” I’m pretty sure I snarled.
He retreated two steps and tipped his hat. The man didn’t deserve that, especially because he respected a woman enough to take a hint, but I also needed a moment alone.
After the doors closed, I faced the mirrored walls and peeled the waistband of my trousers down to eye the gauze, confirming it was soaked in blood.
I was out of the lift in a hurry once I reached the top level, barely managing to open the door to my suite because my hands were so shaky.
My clothes came off as I walked to the bathroom. Jacket gone. Boots tossed. My top a flash of black material over my shoulder. Getting out of my skinny jeans was the greatest challenge because of my injury and the wriggling necessary to get the damn things off.
I backed into the shower and gasped when the cold water hit my back, then made quick work of washing my body, taking care to clean around the wound thoroughly. I needed to get a good look, determine the damage, and decide whether I’d have to fix myself up.
Another thing Papà had taught me was to patch myself up. I didn’t have any official medical training, but my life required me to be a jack-of-all-trades.
I bit down on my back teeth when the water turned hot and burned my skin. Blood circled the drain beneath my bare feet, and my hand became a fist as I rested it against the tiled wall and hissed.
I’d been distracted tonight. When the leader of the Dutch gun runners Sean and I had encountered in the park the other night made a surprising appearance in the city looking for me, I’d gone after him alone. Not my best idea.
The man in charge managed to swipe me before I rendered him unconscious and called in a team to escort him and his two “colleagues” to a League prison. I’d been tempted to let the local police come and pick the men up since they were alive, but I didn’t need anyone tossing around my description to detectives. Sebastian had a few guys on the inside at the police station, but I didn’t want to take a chance.
Both Sean and I had kept ourselves busy the last two days, dealing with separate issues.
Sean and Cole had handled a local drug dealer after our meeting ended on Wednesday, so he’d been tied up and couldn’t pin me down with questions about my Vegas comment that night.
But tomorrow was our trip to Scotland, and we’d have no choice but to spend time together, especially since we had to stay in the same suite. He’d be my date to the fashion show after all.
I stepped out of the shower, wondering what Chanel would have to say about all of this, including the woman I’d become. As well as Papà. I knew why he’d never gone after his rivals as fiercely as his father had in the past. But how would he feel about my plans now?
I won’t let Atlas or Penelope die, I told Papà and Chanel in my head as if they’d hear me, hoping I’d be able to keep that promise. Hoping when the time came, Atlas wouldn’t put me in a position to force my hand.
I toweled off and stepped in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror attached to the walk-in closet door to get a closer look.
Idiota. The bastard who cut me nearly destroyed the tattoo I’d received the day I’d taken over as League leader. My League ink was just below my hip bone, only visible when I wore a swimsuit or was naked.
I reached for a tube of antibiotic cream but nearly dropped it when incessant banging on the main door of my suite startled me.
I slapped a piece of gauze over the wound and secured it with medical tape, then pulled on a pair of cotton drawstring shorts and a tee.
“Who is it?” I asked while hurrying through the living room, doing my best not to yelp in pain with each step.
“Sean,” he barked out loudly, then dropped his voice to a low hiss. “Why is there blood out here?”
I set a palm next to the door and took a breath before swinging it open. Sebastian must’ve told him I’d called in a League team after facing off with the Dutch criminals tonight. His flat was only five minutes away, which meant he came here immediately after Sebastian had snitched.
Sean stood before me wearing dark denim jeans and a cream-colored pullover. His hair was slightly damp as if he’d hopped out of the shower and raced right over.
“Why is there blood?” he repeated, pointing to the small spot on the carpet in the hall. “Are you okay?”
“A scratch. I’m fine.” With one hand grasping the edge of the door and the other still planted on the wall, I sank into the doorframe a bit, going for casual and trying like hell to keep him from barging into my suite. I prayed Sean wouldn’t notice how much pain I was in, though it was my pride that hurt more than anything.
His brows slanted. Worry still cutting across his face while his eyes searched my body, obviously looking for the source of the blood. After a quick once-over, his eyes lingered on my T-shirt.
Right. No bra. And I was wearing a light gray top. If I looked down, I’d most likely find my nipples poking through the fabric. No panties, either. Should I let him know that, too? Make things even more awkward between us?
“So, you’re okay?” He slowly guided his focus to my face, and my heart nearly skipped a beat at the lust burning in his gaze.
“I’m okay. Sebastian didn’t need to call you. Just had to handle the boss of those assholes we dealt with earlier in the week. Everything worked out.”
“I’d like to see. Can you let me in?” He wasn’t buying my act. Why was I surprised? He was one of the few people in my life who had the uncanny ability to see right through me.
“Ethan back? You picked him up at the airport earlier, right?” I made a lame attempt to derail his focus from my injury.
“Yeah, he’s home.” He jerked his chin, motioning for me to let him in.
My shoulders sagged, but I relented and moved out of the way. If I needed stitches, it’d probably be easier if I had help.
“You should have called me,” he said while following me to the ensuite, maneuvering around my discarded clothes.
“I had it handled.” I would’ve been fine if you weren’t in my head, distracting me to no end. Or Chanel, for that matter.
“A scratch, huh?” he tossed out sarcastically, pointing to the bloody gauze on the vanity counter.
“I bleed easily.” But what was the point in lying when he was about to have a look himself?
“Sure.” He surprised me by pulling the jumper over his head, and he carelessly tossed it into the bedroom, revealing a plain white tee that showed off his corded forearms and tight triceps. Too hot in here for him?
When I was at Holly’s on Tuesday, I’d mentioned her brother had physically changed since joining The League, and now that my memories from Vegas were surfacing, those words couldn’t be truer.
He’d been handsome back then, a decade ago, but the man he’d become, the man standing before me now was absolutely stunning.
His jawline was more chiseled, and his once lean body was cut and defined in a way only fighting and rigorous League training could produce.
But it was his eyes that had undergone the most noticeable changes. Their alluring blue color had reeled me in that night in Vegas, but it was more than just their hue. They expressed a genuine curiosity and love for life. Maybe even a touch of innocence. Now, whatever innocence had been present ten years ago was long gone. Replaced with wisdom and experience and hardened by the realities from which he’d been shielded. For Sean, joining The League was like getting pulled from the matrix, and he finally saw the true pain and suffering in our cities. Sometimes, looking at him was like looking into a mirror.
“You’re not invincible, you know?” He advanced closer. “I know you think you are, but everyone bleeds.” His tone was rough, like he wanted to yell at me but was holding back. Pissed that I could have gotten myself killed. And if I was being honest with myself, angry for a lot more than that.
I blinked a few times, then backed up against the vanity as if my body knew he was a force not to be taken lightly and sought a reprieve from the fallout.
Heat radiated from him, saturating the air as he grew closer with slow decisive steps. A lion stalking his prey. And was it strange that this growly, fierce side of him turned me on? He set both hands on the counter on either side of where I gripped and leaned in, not giving me much room to show him the injury.
But . . . what injury? The only pain I could focus on was between my thighs. A dull, achy unfulfilled need that grew stronger with each passing second.
I lifted my chin, challenging his dominant stance. He didn’t afford me much space to do more than breathe. And even then, his masculine scent crowded my senses, dizzying my mind and crumbling my resolve with every inhalation.
“Where’s. The. Scratch?” I could almost feel the rumble of his chest as he gritted out the words, and damn if that didn’t send a thrill of excitement to my core.
Tuesday night after our fight, Sean had told me he’d back off. That he’d fuck a blonde to get me out of his system. This was the opposite of backing off. This was pushing me to want to reach for his buckle and shove down his jeans. To stroke his length and bury him inside me.
Suddenly, he lifted his palms and stepped back, and I followed his silent command and brushed my shirt aside to reveal the gauze covering my wound.
He lowered himself to one knee and leaned in so close I felt his warm breath caress my exposed skin.
If I moved a fraction to the right, his mouth would be perfectly positioned between my legs.
“More than a scratch,” he mumbled after gently removing the tape and gauze. The low, raspy quality still clung to his tone.
I couldn’t deny the hold he had on me. And being alone with him in my suite, his mouth within licking distance to my wet center, was more than I could handle.
It was a coin toss as to what I’d do next.
Peel off my tee and give myself to him, or push him away and demand he leave?
Sean lifted my shirt to get a better view of my injury. Not too far from where his hand lay was a scar I’d gotten at a wedding years ago—stabbed by a corkscrew of all things. Interestingly enough, that was what led to my friendship with Roman, one of the Navy SEALs we helped out in October. He’d saved me that night, and we kept in touch over the years, developing a platonic friendship along the way. And now Roman was one of the closest friends outside of The League I’d allowed myself to have since Chanel. He had walls and barriers and issues like me, so we understood each other.
“I need your shirt and shorts off to fix you up. Can you change into a bikini or something?”
“It’s December in Dublin. No bikini.”
He lifted his chin to find my eyes and returned the ghost of a smile on my lips. He repositioned his hands on my outer thighs and held me in place. Whether it was to keep me from running or simply to hold me, I wasn’t sure. Logic told me it was option one, but I desperately wanted it to be option two.
“What do you Irish call them? Knickers?”
“That’s more of an English or Northern Ireland term.” He managed a smile. “Pants are panties to us, but that can be a wee bit confusing to non-Dubliners, so we can go with whatever you’d like. Your panties and bra are fine.” Sean stood, carefully smoothing his hands up the sides of my torso in the process.
The fact we were discussing the semantics of undergarments meant we were both crazy. I was sure of it.
“Then I’ll need to go put them on sinc
e I’m not wearing any.”
His hands froze beside my breasts, and that lustful gaze of his returned even brighter. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but it felt so much longer.
“Why are you still holding me?” I finally asked, breaking our silence, a slight tilt to my lips.
His blue eyes gleamed as he studied me. Such wicked thoughts mirroring my own, no doubt, going on in his head.
He didn’t answer, and I followed the tan column of his throat to witness the movement of his Adam’s apple. He unhanded me, then unexpectedly brought his knuckles over my cheek before catching my lower lip with his thumb.
The movement sent shivers down my spine, and I tipped up my chin and closed my eyes. “I truly wish you were capable of no-strings sex.” It took all of my strength to remain composed and to keep my tone steady as I spoke. And after that, I did an about-face and left.
I shut the ensuite door to be alone in the bedroom and alone with my thoughts. I took my time going through the dresser, shuffling around through panties and bras in search of something plain. The most boring pair I could find. More of a safety precaution for me. Red or black lace would scream, I want you to take me here and now. On the vanity counter. No protection. Just raw and primitive.
My fingers skimmed over a matching bra and panty set in beige. Boring beige. Perfect. Plus, full coverage up top.
I shook my head and stole a few breaths, collecting myself.
I whipped my wet hair into a messy bun at the top of my head, took an unsettling look at myself in the mirror over the dresser, then went back to the ensuite.
When I opened the door, Sean’s head was bowed, his palms positioned on the vanity counter.
“Ready,” I announced, feeling like a virgin about to have sex. But with this man, I had so many firsts in regard to my emotions, so . . .
I caught his reflection in the mirror and saw his eyes screwed tight as if he wasn’t ready.
“You can’t help me with your eyes closed, Sean. Doubtful, at least.” Calling up a page from the playbook I’d been using for the last twenty months, I kept my tone teasing and coy. Well, I suppose one could say I was throwing flags on the field to prevent a touchdown. I always did love American football.
The Final Hour (Dublin Nights Book 5) Page 9