by Leigh, Lora
“You woke up the other night?” He grimaced at the thought. “And I was afraid of waking you if I came back to bed. I didn’t come up last night for the same reason. Django and I were late going over information we’ve had coming in and attempting to come up with some idea who the group is that’s attacked you.”
She gave a delicate shrug. “I woke when you left the house. I saw you meet with Sabina and the others. I knew where you’ve been. I guess I’ve gotten used to having you with me through the night.”
He bent his head to kiss the curve of her shoulder.
“I knew the team was close, but until the other night I didn’t know how close. I’ll make certain I don’t leave you again while you’re sleeping,” he promised. “You need your rest.”
Tension still seemed to hum around her as though she was unable or unwilling to relax for some reason.
Rather than questioning her, he just held her, knowing when she was ready she’d talk.
“You know, Mom and Dad gave me this place when they built the new one,” she said reflectively. “I’d just turned eighteen. I worked on it for years rather than getting a loan to make the repairs needed.”
Ilya remained quiet, knowing from his investigation into her past what was coming.
“It was coming together. Dad, Eric, and Ronan helped with the heavier work, but I did as much as I could myself. I learned. Bled.” A watery laugh whispered through the room. “When Matt and I married I still had a long way to go, but I thought it would be the perfect place to raise a family. To raise babies.”
Ilya closed his eyes at the pain in her voice and the pain he knew she had experienced.
“You know he mortgaged it six months after we married. God only knows what he did with the money. The same day I learned of the mortgage, I learned I was pregnant.”
He held her, he didn’t know what else to do, because he knew what that babe had meant to her.
“I was so excited,” she whispered. “By then, I knew I didn’t love Matt, but I loved my baby.” And the sorrow that filled her voice was shattering his heart.
He knew the details. At sixteen weeks into the pregnancy she’d been rushed to the hospital after a fall down the stairs. He listened as she talked him through it, knowing it was what she needed for whatever reason.
“I’ve never remembered what caused the fall,” she whispered. “I remember Matt and I were arguing over the house. I had to leave for work. He was yelling. I just wanted to leave,” she whispered brokenly. “I must have missed a step somehow…”
If Matt Lauren weren’t already dead, he’d kill him, Ilya thought, because he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that son of a bitch had somehow caused that fall.
“I woke in the hospital.” Her breathing hitched with tears, with the efforts to hold them back. “The baby hadn’t survived the fall, but there were other complications as well. The doctor said I’d probably never conceive again, and I saw the thankfulness in Matt’s face. The satisfaction…”
Turning her in his arms, Ilya held her to him and stroked her back, kissed her brow. He’d suspected when he read the report of the miscarriage that somehow her husband had orchestrated her fall, but he hadn’t acted on it. He couldn’t be certain if he attributed that crime to Matt Lauren because the bastard had truly set out to kill his child and possibly the babe’s mother as well or if he was just that damned jealous of the son of a bitch.
“When Eric and Ronan threw him out of the house, he screamed that he was glad our baby had died. That he wished I had as well.”
She cried then, her shoulders shaking, her silent tears breaking his heart.
“I don’t want to go to his memorial because I care anything for Matt,” she finally said, her voice rough from her tears. “I pitied him. I want to go for Mary, because she grieved with me. Because she wanted her grandchild as much as I wanted my child.”
And she wouldn’t turn her back on her ex-mother-in-law’s grief. Ilya understood that. He hated it, but he understood.
“I don’t want to lose you, Emma Jane,” he told her, holding her like the treasure she was to him. “You don’t know what it would do to me.”
The silence stretched between them for long moments.
“I have to go.” The pure conviction and stubbornness in her voice caused his jaw to clench in frustration. “I have to.”
“I have to spank your ass at my next opportunity,” he sighed.
“Okay.” The lighter shade of her tone, the hint of arousal, caressed his senses and settled something in his soul.
It did nothing for his arousal, but he feared he’d taken her too hard the other day, and he was trying to give her a chance to heal more before he took her again. Because he was learning that the hunger he had for her went far too deep to control. And his fears for her were driving him crazy.
“Sleep, baby. We’ll figure it out,” he promised, praying he was right. “Somehow, we’ll figure it out.”
chapter twenty-two
Ilya began his campaign to convince her to stay home the moment she opened her eyes.
“If we stay here today, we’ll go on a picnic. I’ve never been on a picnic,” he told her sincerely.
“We’ll go on a picnic tomorrow.” She dragged her butt out of the bed and headed to the shower.
The bruising along her body silenced him when she stepped into the shower. It looked horrible, she knew, and it didn’t feel too damned good either. She was moving stiffly, aching from head to toe.
Ilya stood outside the shower cubicle just watching her, his expression still, though his pale green eyes seemed to glow with renewed fury.
“They’ll heal,” she assured him after she’d dried herself and moved back to the bedroom. “I’m just sore, Ilya. Another day or so and I’ll be much better.”
“Take your medicine,” he growled, that irritable sound sexier than she’d ever allow him to know. “Take it or we won’t leave the house, goddammit.”
She looked back at him warily. “Ilya, stop being autocratic.”
“Emma Jane, stop making me wish I could take Valium.” The words were pushed between clenched teeth. “Don’t test me on this. Take your medicine.”
She took the medicine, uncertain of this new mood and not really feeling good about testing it. He watched her swallow the pills, nodded, then went to the guest room to shower and change.
The black skirt and black silk camisole tank she chose she paired with simple black pumps. It was easy to wear, comfortable, and gave her a measure of ease of movement.
Sitting in front of the vanity mirror, she quickly applied her makeup, adding a pair of delicate pearl earrings and a matching necklace.
She tried to make sense of how she felt about Matt’s death and the debacle their marriage had become. She knew her family had always suspected that he’d been the reason for her fall down the stairs. The doctor and surgeon who had taken care of her after she was rushed to the hospital had expressed their doubts that the extent of the damage could have been caused from the fall as well.
Ronan and Eric had both believed that after she’d fallen Matt had done something to ensure she lost the baby.
She touched her stomach, trying to remember, trying to pull free the truth from the blank slate that covered the event. There was nothing. There never had been. And she’d never forgiven him because she suspected him of it.
Quickly braiding her hair, she reminded herself that none of this was Mary’s or Bart’s fault. And Matt’s parents had grieved over the loss of their grandchild. Mary had collapsed into inconsolable sobs when she walked into Emma Jane’s room. She’d held Emma Jane like a child, and they’d cried together.
Glancing at the clock, she realized if she put off leaving much longer then it would be too late to arrive before the majority of Matt’s family did. She wanted to pay her respects to Mary and Bart, then leave.
Ilya would be more comfortable if he didn’t have to deal with dozens of family and friends. She knew security would b
e a nightmare at the funeral home the Laurens had chosen. With more than one family milling around, it was never certain who was there to see who.
Leaving the bedroom, she walked down the stairs and could hear Sabina’s and Ilya’s voices in the kitchen. He still sounded disgusted, while Sabina seemed to be teasing him.
“Would you just tie the son of a bitch and stop lecturing me,” Ilya growled as Emma Jane walked into the kitchen and came to a slow, surprised stop.
She’d seen Ilya dressed in silk suits and Italian loafers and jeans and boots, but she realized she’d never seen him wear a tie. On none of the society pages or at any of the events he’d attended had he ever bothered with one.
Sabina was carefully straightening the black tie and notching it firmly at his neck.
“Feels like a fucking noose,” he growled.
“The better for Emma Jane to strangle you with,” Sabina snorted. “Be nice to her, Ilya. She’s the only woman I have seen you with that I like.”
“And that’s really important to me, little cousin,” he mocked her. “You know it is.”
“Of course it is.” Sabina gave a little shrug of her shoulders, the dressy black blouse she wore emphasizing the delicacy of her build. “And it should be. I want only for you to be happy and to have a woman who will kick you in the ass often.” She giggled at the last part, gave a final adjustment to the tie, and stepped back. “You are quite handsome, Dragon. She will be proud to be seen with you.”
“Very proud,” Emma Jane stated, causing the two to turn their heads in her direction.
When Sabina turned, Emma Jane saw that the blouse was actually a blazer. She wore black slacks, low pumps, and a navy shell. And though Emma Jane knew the other girl was armed, she could see no evidence of it.
Ilya was simply breathtakingly handsome though. The expensive cut of his clothes and shoes, the way the black jacket emphasized his shoulders and pale green eyes. Even the dragon looked proud of himself as he curled around the side of his face.
“You cannot wear that blazer,” Sabina made the announcement, frowning back at her. “I have one for you.”
Moving to the chair behind Ilya, she drew out a simple, tailored blazer that appeared a bit heavier than her own.
“Kevlar reinforced,” Ilya stated, his expression tightening with command as he glared at her. “If we’re going, I won’t have you go in unprotected.”
His line in the sand, she thought, hiding the amusement that wanted to break free.
“Very well.” Shedding the jacket she wore, she let Sabina help her into the new one.
“Keep these two buttons secured,” the girl directed, buttoning the two between her breasts. “The back and front are reinforced, not the sleeves. It’s not as effective as a vest, but not as dangerous as going in naked.”
Emma Jane’s gaze lifted to Ilya’s, and for a moment she could feel his concern as though it were her own. His fears of being unable to protect her adequately, of failing her. And she wanted to reassure him, wanted to promise him nothing was going to happen, but she’d learned better than that over the years.
“I’ll be careful,” she promised him instead, a momentary uncertainty pricking at her.
“We’ll have you covered,” he stated. “Ronan, Eric, Sabina, Tobias, and Sawyer will go in with us, the rest of the team will have the outside. They’re at the funeral home now getting in place and watching the guests for anyone suspicious.”
He would do anything he could to ensure her protection, she knew.
“It is time to leave, Dragon,” Sabina stated. “Sheriff Quade and her brother have just pulled in. Ronan and I will ride with you and Emma Jane. Sheriff Quade will be behind us.”
They had it all figured out, Emma Jane realized, watching how seamlessly she was escorted to the SUV they were riding in. She was surrounded, protected on all sides, which was faintly terrifying. She’d never recover from the guilt or the grief.
She was becoming fond of all of them. Tobias, Maxine, and Sawyer were laid back, appearing relaxed, but always watchful. The men with the dragon team, as she’d dubbed them, were like predators, ready to jump, to pounce, at any moment.
They didn’t sit around and bullshit—they were always training, tracking, adjusting. Even Sabina when she worked her social media accounts would often clean her weapon as she scanned the news feeds and sipped at her coffee.
Both teams were confident and effective, just in different ways perhaps.
When they arrived at the funeral home, she almost winced at Ilya’s muttered “fuck” and Ronan’s concerned expression. The parking lot was packed, dozens of people milling around and spilling from the inside.
“This is a clusterfuck,” Eric murmured, pulling into the parking lot, then stopping as another car pulled out of a handy spot.
The car in question was driven by Django, and he didn’t look happy either.
“Report!” Ilya snapped into his comm link, then waited, his expression tight-lipped. “Stay on your fucking toes. We’re heading inside.”
For a moment, Emma Jane considered just having them go back to the house, but then she remembered Mary’s voice when she’d talked to her the night before. How lost she’d sounded. How broken Emma Jane remembered feeling when she’d lost her baby.
It would be okay, she told herself as she went into the funeral home, Ilya’s arm around her back, Eric, Ronan, and Sabina flanking them.
“Twenty minutes, Emma Jane,” Ilya stated as they made their way into the crowded hall leading to the room the memorial was being held in. “You hear me?”
“I hear you.” She glimpsed Mary and Bart standing outside the funeral director’s closed office door, their expressions drawn, Bart’s lined face damp with tears.
Barely six feet, portly, and balding, Bart was quiet and often buried in a book. Mary’s salt-and-pepper dark brown hair was swept back from her face. She hadn’t styled it as she normally did and wore no makeup. They’d aged terribly in the past years, and she blamed Matt for that too.
Nearing them, she had to fight her own tears as Mary saw her and looked away, her lips trembling.
“I’m so very sorry, Bart,” she whispered as Matt’s father hugged her firmly. “Mary.”
Mary’s hug was weaker, lethargic.
“I’m so glad you came,” Mary sniffed, her eyes filling with tears. “We’ve missed you, Emma.”
“I’ve missed the two of you.” Emma Jane tried to smile, but the hurt in the other woman’s face broke her heart.
“I have something for you,” Mary sniffed. “I left it in the office. Some things that were yours that I found in his room.” She touched Emma Jane’s arm. “Please, Emma, can we go in without him?” she pleaded. “Please. I know you deserve a life but…”
Emma Jane glanced at Ilya and saw his “no way in hell” expression. Even the dragon at the side of his face appeared outraged.
“I can go in,” Sabina whispered to Ilya. “Let’s just get it done.”
Emma Jane glanced at Sabina then. The girl was nervous, her gaze moving about the crowded hall, her hand resting at her hip, her weapon in easy reach.
Ilya’s jaw clenched.
“I’ll hurry.” Emma Jane touched his arm. “Just a few minutes.”
She followed Mary, turning to the door as the older woman opened it and stepping inside with her, Sabina moving behind her. The door clicked closed, and in that second Emma Jane realized her mistake.
She tried to scream, but before a sound could part her lips a foul-scented rag went over her mouth. Eyes wide, screams echoing in her head, she watched Sabina take two shots to her chest before she could pull her weapon. At the same time, a neat little scarlet hole appeared in Mary’s forehead and she crumpled to the floor.
The world faded in a flash of sorrow, grief, and guilt.
There was no way she could bear the guilt.
* * *
Ilya stood at the door, adrenaline pulsing in his blood as he scanned the crowd, trying to
detect whatever had the ultra-fine sense of danger rising inside him. The skin beneath the dragon ink was heating, warming, and his senses sharpening.
God damn.
He turned the doorknob, found it locked, and stepped back and kicked.
He could hear the commotion behind him—gasps and screams, muttered curses—as he stepped into hell.
Rushing for Sabina, he flipped her to her back, checked her pulse, and found a single breath as he felt it, steady and strong. The vest she wore beneath her blazer had stopped the bullets meant to punch into her body.
“They have Emma Jane. Sabina is down,” he yelled into the comm link as he jumped to his feet, saw the windows opened on the other side of the room, and sprinted for them. “Emma Jane was taken from the office. Goddammit, find her.”
Ilya could feel the ice begin to form beneath the ink covering his face and back. Each tattoo he carried flashed with frozen rage, and he knew every member of the team, save Sabina, would feel the same.
He jumped through the open window, clearing it without effort and landing in a crouch as he pulled his weapon free of his holster, his gaze sweeping around the crowded parking lot.
There were too many people milling around. Too many bodies.
“Report,” he yelled into the comm link, his head beginning to buzz, blind fury racing through him. “Where is she?”
Pandemonium raged in the office behind him as well as in his ear. His gaze narrowed as he straightened, and he was preparing to run when he glimpsed the black Ferrari racing through the driving lane toward him.
Fuck. Fuck.
He stepped back and when the vehicle slammed to a stop he was ready. He was barely in the soft leather seat when the engine gunned and the vehicle tore out of the funeral home lot and into the traffic.
“All I saw was a tan Lincoln Town Car. Didn’t get the plates.” His half brother, the fucking president of a fucking goddamned nation, black sports glasses covering his eyes, leather driving gloves, and hard-set features, was loose on the American public.
God help them all.
Ilya snapped the description to the team, checked his weapon, then braced himself as the Ferrari increased speed.