Primal: London Mob Book Two

by Michelle St. James

  “Doesn't matter,” he said. “Someone came for you, Jenna. The only way to make sure it doesn’t happen again is to get them first.”

  She took his face in her hands, made him look at her. “Your life is my life now. Don’t do me the disservice of hiding it from me.”

  “It’s going to be dangerous,” he said.

  “It’s already dangerous,” she said. “I want to help. For Lily and Lieve and anyone else who might be hurt by this thing if it’s as bad as it seems.”

  He thought about denying her. About putting his foot down. She would fight him. She would be pissed. But when push came to shove, she’d do as he told.

  Except she was right. This was personal. She wanted to be his partner, and while he knew she would defer to him if it became necessary, he didn’t want their relationship to be all about his control. He could control the rest of the world. The rest of their world. He was surprised to find he didn’t want to control her. Didn’t want to take away the spark that made Jenna the woman he loved.

  “Okay,” he said. “For now.”

  “Okay?”

  He nodded.

  She laughed. “If I’d known getting my way was going to be this easy, I might have tried it earlier.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” he said, squeezing her soft ass. “I reserve the right to send you home at any time. Besides, you had your way last night.”

  She leaned down, kissed him softly, slipped her tongue inside his mouth as she reached down, freed him from his jeans. His cock sprung loose, and she wrapped her hand around it.

  “Somehow I don’t think you’ll mind if I have my way again.”

  She rose up a little, then sank onto him, embedding him in the wetness of her core. He lifted the shirt — his shirt — and closed his mouth around her nipple as she started to move.

  35

  She took a hot shower and got dressed, then studied her reflection in the mirror. She thought she might have regrets in the light of day. That her judgement might have been clouded by everything that had happened, by the soft light and sea air of the house on Rogen, by Farrell’s body on offer to her.

  But no. She looked calmly into the eyes of her own refection. She wasn’t the person she’d once been. Maybe she’d never been that person. Maybe this is who she’d been all along, and she’d only needed to be brought to the edge to realize it.

  She made her way out into the living room, then stopped cold when she saw Farrell staring at the computer, his expression frozen in shock.

  “Farrell? What is it?”

  He shook his head, and she stepped toward him, her heart racing, wondering what she would find on the computer screen. When she got there, she saw that he was watching a live feed from the BBC. A brunette in a trench coat stood on screen in front of a wooded area that looked vaguely familiar. Farrell leaned in, turned up the volume.

  “Police are remaining tight-lipped about the invasion, except to release sketches of potential suspects.”

  Jenna gasped as the screen filled with pictures of her and Farrell.

  The journalist continued. “They say the two individuals were seen in the area at the time of the murder and might be in Germany. Citizens are warned that the suspects should not be approached, as they are armed and should be considered dangerous. Anyone with information should contact their local police department.” She hesitated, then switched gears. “The murder victim, Erik Karlsen, was an award winning virologist who was most well known for his work on the Ebola virus.”

  Jenna shook her head. “This can’t be… Why are they saying those things about us?”

  “Because we’re getting closer, and this is a good way to make sure anyone and everyone is on the lookout for us. They’re going to let the general public do the dirty work of flushing us out.”

  She backed away from the computer. “I can’t… What are we going to do? What about Lily? And my family? My god… what must they be thinking?”

  But even as she asked the questions her mind was filling in the answers.

  They were going to run.

  They were going to stay far away from Lily, from Jenna’s family. So far away that Jenna and Farrell wouldn’t put them in danger. And they were going to stay away until they found out who was behind this. Until they brought those responsible to justice — or until they eliminated them once and for all.

  He rose, placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay, Jenna. I promise. But we have to get out of here, out of Germany, before it’s too late.”

  It only took a few seconds for his words to sink in. Then she started moving.

  36

  “I’m sorry,” Farrell said, picking up the scissors.

  “It’s okay,” Jenna said. “It’s only hair.”

  He snipped off the ends and she closed her eyes, trying not to panic as her head gradually became lighter. When he was finally done, her once long hair skimmed her collarbone. They spent the next hour dying what was left of it platinum blonde. By the time they were done, she didn’t recognize herself in the cracked mirror.

  “What about our fake IDs?” she asked. “I don’t look like my picture now.”

  “Women color and cut their hair all the time,” he said. “It will be okay.”

  She turned to look at him. “What about you?”

  He shrugged. “Not much hair to cut and color.”

  She smiled, reached up to touch his face. “You know what I mean.”

  “We’ll just have to hope the name on the IDs is enough to throw anyone off our trail. Besides,” he said, picking up a baseball cap they’d bought at a petrol station, “there’s always this.”

  She laughed. Farrell in a baseball cap would be something to see.

  “We should get going,” he said. “Try to make as much time as we can while it’s dark.”

  They gathered their things and headed for the car. Traffic was sparse as they merged onto the highway in the dark, the dashboard lights casting a soothing glow over the interior of the car. Here, Jenna could almost believe everything would be okay. Could almost believe they would find out who was hunting them, put an end to it, find their way back to the golden fields of Tuscany and the daughter that had been conceived out of the fiercest of loves.

  But as they took the ramp for Paris, she knew that there were no guarantees. You could try to hide, but the world was filled with danger, and when that danger rose up to meet you, there was only one kind of response that made sense.

  Fight or be beaten. Kill or be killed.

  And she would do either of those things to protect the people she loved.

  Farrell took her hand over the console, and she settled deeper into the passenger seat, a strange calm washing over her. They would go to Paris. Find out who was hunting them.

  Then they would fight together. And live together, too.

  If they could survive long enough.

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  One

  Rose Darrow groaned, reaching through the darkness to swipe the alarm on her phone. She didn’t need to look to know that it was four am. She closed her eyes again, remembering how it used to be, the morning sun slanting softly into her bedroom on school days, the cows calling to her dad across the field out back while her mom banged around in the kitchen.

  She forced her eyes open. Living in the past wouldn’t get her through today.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and shuffled to the bathroom, then pulled on her work jeans and a t-shirt. At least it was warmer now and slightly less depressing than the cold winter mornings right after her mother’s funeral. Then it had seemed like the whole world had died, like her mom had taken the sun and the flowers and the smell of fr
esh cut grass with her forever. Now the land was coming back to life even if her mom was gone for good. It was hard not to feel betrayed by the knowledge.

  She braided her hair in the dark and stepped into the hallway, silent except for the grandfather clock ticking softly in the entryway downstairs. She held still, taking a few seconds to listen for her dad. She knew it was pointless, but she couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stop hoping that one day he would rise above his sadness and remember that Rose was still there. That she needed him.

  Finally she gave up and padded quietly down the stairs. She pulled on her boots, her eyes on the picture of her mother that hung in the foyer. People had been telling Rose that she looked like her mother since she was old enough to walk. Same red hair, same green eyes, both of them a little on the tall side. She hadn’t liked it when she’d been younger. She’d wanted to look like herself then. Like Rose, not Kate Darrow’s daughter. But looking at the picture now, she hoped it was true, like their similarities might somehow prove that her mother had once really existed when her presence seemed more like a dream with each passing day.

  Rose stared at the picture of her mother a few seconds longer. Then she headed for the barn.

  * * *

  Everything was still and quiet, the moon high in the velvety sky, as she made her way across the dirt road that separated the house from the cattle barn. At seventy-five acres, the farm was small by some standards, but it was a lot of land, all of it laid out around the house at its center. Rose felt overwhelmed just looking at it.

  She should have been relieved that Aunt Marty had hired someone to help over the summer. School would be out soon, giving Rose more hours to work on the farm, but it still wouldn’t be enough. There were fences to mend and irrigation pipes to repair, vaccinations to give and numbers to calculate, the weight of the cattle and the amount of money it would bring always a precarious balance against the cost of grain. There was the garden to maintain and the market stand to run, more crucial than ever now that money was tight. And then there was the hay; the entire north pasture would have to be cut and baled. Will Breiner was a good friend, but he was busy on his own farm. She couldn’t expect him to keep doing double duty, and there was no way Rose could do it alone.

  Still, the farm was more than a business. It didn’t matter that it had started to feel like an anchor around her feet; the rhythm of it was in her blood. It felt weird to think of a stranger living in the bunkhouse, working alongside her day in and day out. She hoped he knew what he was doing at least.

  She headed for the heifers and their calves first. Seven babies had been born in February, and they hadn’t lost a single one, something Rose was especially proud of since she’d taken charge of the whole thing. Will and his dad had helped a little, but most nights, it was Rose who stayed up waiting to make sure the mothers and their babies were okay. When the bedding was dirty and needed to be changed, she was the one who mucked the stalls before and after school. When one of her mother’s heifers had trouble giving birth, she’d texted Will and her Aunt Marty, then got the calving chains, wrapping them around the calf’s legs the way her dad had shown her last year and pulling gently when the cow had a contraction. It had taken her less than twenty minutes to birth the calf, a frail looking female with fur the color of fresh hay. By the time Will and Aunt Marty got there, Rose was sitting in the hay, her chest feeling simultaneously full and empty as she watched the baby try to nurse.

  She opened the door to the barn and was immediately greeted with the bawls of the mother cows. The calves wouldn’t be weaned for months, but the mothers knew when they saw Rose that it meant feeding time. It hadn’t always been that way. When her dad had first stopped coming to the barn, when he’d started sleeping odd hours and forgetting the chores, the cows had just looked at her, blinking, like they had no idea who she was or what she was doing there. It’s not like she hadn’t done her share before, but her dad had always been so enthusiastic about the farm that he’d taken care of almost everything himself, hiring local help for the busy seasons of hay and harvest and trading work on the Breiner’s dairy farm for a hand with the bigger stuff. Rose had been in charge of feeding the chickens, harvesting food from the garden planted by her mom, sometimes bottle feeding a clueless calf. It was her dad the cows turned to for food, and she used to laugh out loud when she’d see them running to him like excited kids from across one of the pastures.

  Now they lined up at the trough as soon as they saw Rose, and she walked to the feed chute and turned the hand crank. A second later, the feed, earthy and sour, started to pour out of the chute. It funneled into the trough, unfurling out of the barn through a hole in the wall while the cows waited patiently, watching the grain make its way toward them.

  When the trough was full all the way down the line, Rose stopped turning the crank. She opened the door between the pen and the interior of the barn and leaned against the door jamb so she could watch them while they ate. The babies were still trying to suckle while their mothers ate breakfast. All except for Buttercup, the little female Rose had birthed. She stood off to the side, the green fly tag in her ear twitching as she watched the others eat.

  The calf was still too small, and worry thrummed through Rose’s mind when she thought of all the trouble they’d had with it. At first everything had seemed fine. The calf had suckled on its mother just like it was supposed to, ingesting the nutrient rich milk that was essential to its newborn health. But she had never fed easily again, and Rose had spent the last four months trying everything to get the calf to eat regularly. Sometimes she’d walk in and be surprised to find the baby nursing, but it never lasted long, and the calf’s weight hadn’t kept pace with the other babies in the barn. Rose had even tried bottle feeding the animal, but that hadn’t worked, either, the calf pulling its head out of her grasp, bawling and backing away even when it usually seemed happy to see her. She’d spent so much time with it that she’d finally given it a name, though that was something they didn’t usually do. All of the calves would eventually be sold to cattle farms, most of them out west. Giving them names was an easy way to make yourself miserable when you had to say goodbye.

  But this one had come from a green-tagged heifer; the mark of her mother’s hand in its breeding. Her mom had had an affinity for breeding, an instinct for which heifers and bulls to buy at auction and when to bring them together. The farm had been in her blood, too, and Rose had named the struggling calf after her mother’s favorite flower. Right now, there were still a few other green-tagged calves, but they would all be sold in the Fall, Buttercup included, and then there would never be another animal on the farm that had been bred by Rose’s mother.

  Resolving to talk to Will about the calf, she closed the door to the feed room and headed to the house. Careful not to wake her dad, she grabbed some cleaning supplies, a fresh set of sheets, some towels, and a broom, then made her way to the old bunk room at the back of the barn.

  The room hadn’t been used in decades as far as she knew, and she cringed as she opened the door, scared of what she would find. But it was just a dusty room with four bunks, two beds a piece, a dresser, and an old wooden dining table. The concrete floor was covered with dirt, and she went to work sweeping and dusting before moving onto the small bathroom. She left the sheets and towels on the dresser and opened the window to let in some fresh air. She might not be happy about the idea of a stranger on the farm, but she wouldn’t be inhospitable. That was something her mother never would have tolerated.

  When the room was as clean as could be expected, she left the big barn and headed for the smaller one where she spent the next hour feeding and watering the horses and mucking their stalls before moving onto the chickens.

  The sky was just beginning to lighten when she headed to the house for a shower.

  Two

  It was mid-May when Bodhi Lowell finally reached New York. It had taken him almost two months of walking, two months with nothing but the pack on his back and his own tho
ughts for company, but he’d made it all the way from Montana, and for the first time in his whole life he found himself east of the Mississippi.

  He’d picked up the Appalachian Trail yesterday in Harriman and was already looking forward to rejoining civilization in Pawling. He hadn’t eaten since the two protein bars he’d wolfed down as the sun was coming up, and he was ready for a real meal. Maybe a cheeseburger or two.

  The sound of his footsteps was meditative on the uneven ground, and he looked up at the patches of sky that appeared between the tops of the trees, grateful for the mild warmth of the day. In another month or two, the land out west would be scorched and hardened by the summer sun, rain a precious commodity. He wondered what the weather would be like here.

  He’d been working a ranch over in Winnett, birthing cows in the dead of winter, when he’d seen the online job posting for a summer farm hand in Milford, New York. Up to then, he’d never been east of Colorado, but he’d been unaccountably drawn to the summer position at Darrow Farm, and eventually, to the idea of it as an opportunity for a more dramatic change of scenery. After a few emails, one phone conversation in which he’d been surprised to realize Marty Darrow was a woman, and a quick check of his references, he’d been hired. He’d started out on foot in March and had never looked back.

  He raised his head as the sound of chatter came from up ahead on the trail. A few seconds later, a couple rounded the bend. Bodhi smiled in greeting as they each raised a hand. Their voices quickly faded behind him, and he continued on, shifting his pack and settling it more firmly on his shoulders.

  The pack had made countless trips with him across Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana, plus one sweltering summer in Texas, and he’d gotten used to answering the questions prompted by its presence. Old women wanted to know where he was from and truckers asked where he was headed. Kids asked him why he didn’t have a car while their parents wondered about his parents. But the one thing everyone wanted to know was if he got lonely. The question had surprised him at first. Being alone wasn’t something he feared or even thought about. It was a resting state, had been as natural as breathing since he’d left home at fifteen without a word to anyone. He’d been careful to stay under the radar right up until his eighteenth birthday last year. If his dad had reported Bodhi missing and he’d been caught, he would have been forced back to the crappy little apartment in Billings. Or worse, into foster care when Child Protective Services realized his dad was a drunk. He was better off on his own, something he’d proven by quickly picking up seasonal labor with the migrants who came north in the summer. He was a good worker, a hard worker, and he soon had a list of farms and ranches who were happy to have him back for the next season.