Lethal Nights (Brute Force)

by Lora Leigh

  “Be here for what?” Emma Jane felt her chest tighten in premonition as she stared at Ronan’s hand. “What has Matt done?”

  She turned her gaze to Eric. “I know none of you believe it, but he’s just trying to be a bully. You know how Eric is.”

  “EJ,” Eric sighed.

  “What did he do?” she demanded again, steeling herself for whatever Matt had managed to get himself into this time.

  “We found Matt this morning,” Eric told her, his voice low. “He’s dead, EJ.”

  She stared at Eric, then Ronan. It was there in their expressions, in the concern that filled their eyes.

  “He was murdered?” she asked, though she knew he would have been.

  Eric nodded at the question. “We went to Mary’s first, she’s claiming Matt went to meet with you after her and Bart bailed him out. Said he was certain he had information about Ilya that would make you change your mind.” He glanced at Ilya. “He was certain he could make you walk away from Ilya.”

  She was shaking her head even as Eric related the conversation. There was no way that would have happened, and she knew Ilya wouldn’t have bothered killing Matt after he got out of the house.

  “There’s nothing he could have on me, Eric.” Ilya’s hand brushed down her shoulders in a gesture of comfort.

  “Yeah, I figured,” Eric said, still watching Emma Jane closely. “Mary’s inconsolable. She said Matt hadn’t been the same since the divorce anyway.”

  Matt hadn’t been the same in a lot of years, Emma Jane acknowledged to herself. After they’d married and he’d learned she had no intention of moving in with his parents and selling the house her parents had given her, their relationship had deteriorated rapidly. When his plans hadn’t worked, he’d gone behind her back and mortgaged her property and the house for every penny it was worth before she’d realized what he’d done.

  What he’d done with the money she’d never learned.

  “He was like a child, always wanting more, always certain it was someone else’s fault when he couldn’t attain it,” she sighed wearily, shaking her head.

  “Mary asked if you’d come to the memorial,” Eric relayed the message. “Her and Bart are leaving for her brother’s place in Florida the next morning.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Ilya stated behind her, his hands lying on her shoulders without pressure, but a reminder that he’d protect her.

  Emma Jane shook her head. “I can’t say no, Ilya,” she disagreed, looking up at his expression for a moment. “Mary was always kind to me. I can’t not go to the memorial.”

  She rubbed at her temples once again, the headache building as she tried to make sense of the abruptness of the information, the knowledge that someone she had known most of her life was gone.

  She hadn’t loved Matt as she should have; she’d accepted that a long time ago. For a while, she’d hated him for risking her home, for risking the only thing she had left that was hers. And finally, she’d just felt sorry for him.

  He was a little boy in a man’s body and he’d never wanted to try to mature, to learn how to live as an adult rather than as a little boy.

  “I knew how you’d feel, EJ. I’ll make sure Ronan and I are there,” Eric promised. “And like I told Mary, she’ll have to agree to your security as well or it isn’t happening. She had no problem with it and Bart just wants to say goodbye.”

  Matt’s parents had always been nice to her, as she said. They’d never understood why she couldn’t remain married to him. Why she hadn’t wanted to.

  “Emma Jane…” She could hear the disapproval in Ilya’s voice and the fight that was no doubt coming later.

  It was all in that heavy rasp, the lower pitch of his voice, and what she thought of as the dragon roughness to his tone. She loved the sound of it, but she wouldn’t allow it to sway her.

  “I have to go, Ilya.” Getting to her feet, she moved away from him before turning to stare into the heavy frown he leveled on her. “This isn’t your choice, it’s mine. Period.”

  He glared at her, then at Ronan and Eric.

  Both men merely shrugged, clearly affected by whatever had happened to Matt.

  “We’re about to have a hell of a fight, Emma Jane,” his voice roughened, his expression tightening arrogantly.

  “Fine, we’re going to fight over it.” Placing her hands on her hips, she fought to keep from getting angry, from letting her own fears and the mistake she made marrying Matt to begin with burn into anger. “What will it change? It won’t change my mind and it won’t change the fact that I’ll be walking out of this house tomorrow to attend the memorial. It wouldn’t look right if I didn’t and it would only level suspicion toward us.”

  “They will suspect me anyway,” he snarled. “My reputation precedes me, remember?”

  “As does mine,” she told him, suddenly reminded of his comment that she was the light to his darkness. “Those who matter would know better than to believe I’d harbor a man who murdered my ex-husband simply because he could. But I really don’t care what others think, and neither do you. I will be going.”

  chapter twenty-one

  There were times when a man just had to admit he was head over heels, stupid in love, Ilya thought later that evening as he pounded on the punching bag he and Django had hung in the barn. With a series of kicks, punches, and curses he beat on the bag, ignoring the sweat dripping in his eyes and the fact that he was beating the bag because he couldn’t beat that fucking Matt Lauren to death.

  That dumb son of a bitch.

  He slammed his fists into the bag again, keeping the curses to himself, though he couldn’t halt the rage that burned through his mind.

  Yeah, he was crazy fucking in love with her and terrified for her. That woman was so damned trusting, so incredibly compassionate and merciful, that he couldn’t imagine the horror she’d feel if she suspected half the things he’d done in his life.

  Things he hadn’t lost sleep over. He’d known before he ever pulled the trigger, threw his fist, or used a knife who he was killing and whether or not they deserved it. They’d all deserved it in his estimation.

  He was a fucking Dragonovich, whether he liked it or not, and there were times he’d honestly hated it. But he’d learned to accept it, learned to take the strength it brought him while ignoring the rest of it.

  The rest of it—like the fact that he was a direct descendent to the Romanov line. That if he wished, he could take his brother’s power, the people’s loyalty, and make it his own.

  If he wanted to.

  There was nothing he would be more loath to do. Despite the current fascination and romantic view of the Romanov line, he’d never thought much of the family himself. There was a reason the people revolted against them. Why would he want to risk it happening again?

  The Russian Federation needed a progressive leader such as Alexi for several generations before the wounds of the past could repair and the corruption within could be diluted. Alexi had the patience for such things. Ilya knew himself and he knew he’d end up shooting the bastards out of sheer frustration.

  Pausing to catch his breath, his taped hands gripping the bag, he laid his forehead against it.

  All he could do was curse himself because he was too stupid in love to do what he had to do to keep Emma Jane from going to that damned memorial the next day. He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and run away with her. He wanted to find a way to make her understand what it would do to him if he lost her.

  He simply didn’t have a good feeling about this, and he damned sure didn’t have a good feeling about Matt’s parents. Matt had been the way he was for a reason. His parents had raised him with that sense of entitlement and arrogance. They hadn’t forced him to grow up, and by the time he’d married Emma Jane it had been too late. The boy was already set in the mold they’d created.

  “You’re going to put a hole in that bag,” Django remarked as he walked slowly around Ilya until he could see his face. “I
hear we’re attending a memorial tomorrow.”

  The knowing amusement in the other man’s expression wasn’t helping his mood any, Ilya thought. It was fine to be amused if the situation was in the least funny. He didn’t consider it funny.

  “So she’s trying to convince me!” Ilya snapped, his breathing still heavy.

  “Or are you trying to convince her?” Django chuckled, his dark eyes flashing with amusement again.

  “Don’t piss me off, Django, or I’ll use you for a punching bag,” he warned the commander.

  He hadn’t sparred with the other man in a while, but he was sure he could take him. Hell, he was pissed off enough at the moment he wouldn’t care if he had to spar with the whole damned team.

  “It’s interesting, seeing you with her,” the other man commented as he stayed carefully out of reach. “Even Sabina likes her, which is unheard of. She’s usually pretty critical of the women she sees you with in the tabloids.”

  No, Emma wasn’t like the widows he’d fucked his way through. She would never be the type of woman a man could walk away from.

  She was the kind of woman a man kept, cherished, and loved.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this memorial.” Stepping away from the punching bag, he grabbed a towel and dried the sweat from his face and shoulders. “Emma Jane won’t relent. She’s going.”

  And he couldn’t come up with an argument he knew would sway her. He’d run through everything he could come up with. He’d stomped, he’d growled, and she’d just remained calm and stared at him with those haunted gray eyes.

  “So, do what men around the world do and make her so damned tired she sleeps through it,” Django suggested, wagging his brows suggestively like an overgrown feral savage.

  Yeah, Ilya had thought of that.

  “She can barely walk tonight from the bruising she took in that explosion.” Not to mention the crazy, desperate hunger he’d taken her with the night before. “She’s hurting. Physically and emotionally.”

  Matt’s death and Mary’s request had brought back memories he knew were painful for her. Things she never spoke of but he could sense she thought of often.

  What she couldn’t change she seemed to grow stronger from, but if she could change what she knew was wrong Emma Jane would fight tooth and nail.

  Django nodded slowly. “From what I learned, he wasn’t exactly a nice guy where she was concerned. Takes a hell of a woman to forgive that.”

  The other man crossed his arms over his chest, one hand rubbing at his rough jaw. “Some men just need to be killed, Dragon, and he was one of them.”

  Ilya shook his head. “I don’t think it’s so much forgiveness as pity. She’s known him most of her life though, and she feels guilty. She knows he’s dead because he was helping whoever attacked her and she’s having a hell of a time telling the mother no.”

  He couldn’t convince her that guilt was misplaced. Oh, she’d agree with him, nod, and say she knew Ilya was right, but he’d looked into her eyes and seen the sorrow and the guilt as well as the pity.

  “A woman that needs a dragon to protect her.” Django flicked his fingers to the tattoo over his heart. “The mating mark you now carry is for her, isn’t it?”

  Ilya gave a short, tight nod. “When Grandfather arrives, I’ll accept his position, then I’ll ink her as well. I’m afraid it’s the only way I can keep Lorena from hiring more and more assassins to come after Emma Jane. Then, I’ll just have to deal with her.”

  The thought of killing Lorena without irrefutable proof that she’d killed Natalia all those years ago or that she had hired the would-be assassins coming after Emma Jane, didn’t set well with him. If she struck out at Emma Jane in even the slightest way or if he learned for certain that she was behind this attempt, then he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

  He was going to have to talk to his half brother, convince him to express to his mother that Ilya wouldn’t have a problem killing her.

  “Once you hold the position as Dragon, then it falls to us to protect those interests, even if it’s against her,” Django reminded him.

  Ilya shook his head. “There’s some things if a man can’t do them himself, then he has no business having them done.”

  He had a feeling, much like him, Django would take his duties seriously though. Ilya would never know what the other man had planned and would probably never know he was behind it. It was that position he had taken in Ivan’s life as they fought to be free of Russia and the Resnova crimes.

  Survival was sometimes a dirty business. The blood that had been shed wasn’t innocent blood; Ilya had made certain of it. He’d ensured Ivan’s hands remained as unstained as possible though. Ivan was the face of the Resnova name, and if he was going to make it respectable then he had to stay as above suspicion as possible.

  “Your grandfather should be arriving soon, within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours,” the commander informed him. “Sabina received a text from them before I left the main house. When I tried to call, they weren’t answering though.”

  That wasn’t much of a surprise. His grandfather could be as conniving as hell, then laugh when he was caught up in it. It drove Ilya insane, amused his grandmother, and made everyone else wary.

  “Let me know if you hear anything else,” Ilya ordered him. “I’m going to go shower and see if that woman has given this insanity any more thought.”

  “Good luck there.” Django laughed as he turned and loped the short distance to the back of the house.

  Night had fallen since he’d left the house with a slam of the door and enough frustration to nearly grind the enamel off his back teeth. And Emma Jane had sat there watching him with those sad gray eyes, ensuring he felt like a complete heel. He wasn’t looking forward to the fact that he knew he was going to take her to that damned memorial, and he knew he was going to regret it.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t be certain that the reason he was going to regret it would be anything more than yet more grief heaped on Emma Jane’s heart. He’d rather shoot a son of a bitch than see another tear on his woman’s face.

  Stepping into the house, he glanced around, searching for Emma Jane. She wasn’t there, but Sabina was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in front of her, an electronic pad in her hand.

  “Emma Jane has gone up to rest,” she told him, her head lifting from the tablet. “I’ve been scanning the social media on Lauren’s death.” Her lips twisted in distaste. “The world is a better place with such a man no longer in it.”

  The disgust in her expression as well as her voice was heavier than normal when it came to most men. Not that he could blame her. He should have just killed Matt to begin with. It would have been far easier.

  “Anything that gives us a clue who he was working with?” he asked her. “There has to be someone new he was meeting with. The Vasilyevs wouldn’t have contacts here.”

  He’d checked that first. He’d had every damned name of anyone who came in contact with Emma Jane run against any possibility of being associated with Lorena or Vladimir.

  “Nothing. Sorry, Dragon. But if I find anything, I’ll let you know immediately.”

  Not that he expected her to find anything. Hell, that would just be too easy, wouldn’t it?

  “I’m still looking though,” Sabina promised him. “Most who knew Matt weren’t the least bit fond of him, but his death has been a shock. It’s making people come out and talk, and that’s what we need.”

  Social media.

  He shook his head. “Of the devil,” he muttered.

  The comment earned him a laugh from Sabina. “You are insane, Dragon. It’s information. People talk here as though no one is reading. It’s a free flow of fact, innuendo, and pure falsehoods, and sifting through it is rather fun.”

  Fun?

  He’d have to ask his grandparents if Sabina was dropped on her head at some point as a baby.

  “Well, you just keep having fun,” he grunted. “I’m g
oing to shower and head for bed.”

  She looked back at him then, her gaze concerned. “Emma Jane was very quiet after you left, Dragon. I think perhaps you hurt her feelings very much when you played the dumb man and stomped out.”

  That was Sabina. She never failed to call any of them on their “dumb man” moments.

  “I know, Bina.” And he hated it, more than she knew. “Let’s see if I can fix it now.”

  Making his way upstairs, he went to the guest room to shower, not wanting to disturb Emma Jane if she was asleep. She was exhausted. The tension, the pain and fear, were beginning to wear on her. But hell, she’d made it far longer than she should have without breaking down.

  If she decided to turn into a neurotic mess at this point, then no one could blame her, least of all him.

  After stepping from the shower, he dried himself and, wrapping the towel around his hips, left the guest room and walked the short distance to her bedroom. Opening the door silently, he stepped into the room, a smile almost touching his lips.

  Emma Jane wasn’t sleeping. He could feel her awareness of him the moment he slipped into the room and locked the door behind him.

  “You should be sleeping,” he chastised her gently as he pulled the towel from his hips and dropped it to the floor.

  Sliding beneath the blankets, he eased against her, pulling her into his embrace until he could wrap himself around her.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t come up.” Slender fingers gripped his wrist as his arm settled over her hip.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” He kissed the top of her head. “You have the more comfortable bed.”

  She didn’t protest or give one of those soft laughs as he expected.

  “Emma Jane.” He tightened his arms around her as he felt the tension he’d been unaware of until now. “I may disagree with you and in my frustration stomp around like a stubborn man, but I’ll never hurt you. You know this, don’t you?”

  He felt her nod against the arm beneath her head.

  “I know.” Her voice was low, sad. “You left the other night and didn’t come back then or last night. I was afraid you wouldn’t come back tonight.”