“Oh, yeah? And what part of kidnapping an NYPD detective helps your survival?” Danny had shouted at him. So brave, so foolish. “’Cause from where I’m sitting, that’s a really boneheaded move.”
She’d experienced the sting as Anton hit Danny for the insult, knocking his head into the back of hers. Aleksei had simply laughed, as if enjoying a theater production on Broadway. “Where you are sitting, Officer Yeo, is in my chair, in my facility. Be thankful that you are not yet lying six feet underneath it.”
Was that a thing to be thankful for? Yulia did not know anymore. She’d spent so many years being told to be grateful for what Aleksei had given her. A home in the United States after Mama and Papa died. A place to be her true self. A steady job. A haven for their kind, both Russian and supernatural. But here he was, chaining her up, holding her captive, preventing her from shifting, preventing her from loving. He’d taken more away from her than he’d given…and he meant to take even more before the sun rose.
“Yulia?” Danny nudged her gently. “You awake?”
“Yes. Barely.” She coughed to clear her throat. The sound echoed through the warehouse like a shot. Likely why Danny had not bothered to keep his voice down. Anything they said to each other would be heard in a place like this, and not just because her brother and his henchmen had supernatural senses. “I am sorry that I cannot…that I cannot be of use.”
He somehow found the ability to chuckle. To make more jokes. “Damn, because I was only interested in you because you’re stronger than me. I need a rescuer. And someone to open all my pickle jars.”
Yulia made herself laugh, too. “Liar. You did not know what I was when you used to come into the bar.” Because that was true. Even if he had learned later what she was, who her family was, those first few visits were just of a man, a detective, patrolling his neighborhood.
Her Danny was not at all deterred by her argument. “I knew exactly what you were—a beautiful woman who fascinated me. And made killer manhattans.”
She frowned even though he could not see the expression. As a bartender, it was her job to know her regular’s preferences, and… “You don’t drink manhattans. You like old-fashioneds.”
He moved, his shoulders rippling against hers. “You’re right. The last time we met up, I had an old-fashioned with Bulleit rye. I wonder how a manhattan would taste with Bulleit.”
Yulia was no rocket scientist, but his implications were obvious. There was little chance Danny actually wanted to talk to her about cocktail recipes. Unless the knocks to his skull had begun to take a toll, he was trying to tell her something. Bulleit. Manhattan. His people, like the stunning woman who came to Kamchatka, were based in Manhattan…and they would come for him with guns.
Perhaps she should have been comforted by this news, but she wasn’t calmed. No, it only replaced the sedatives in her system with dread. Yulia flexed against the chains, worked her wrists and hands against the zip ties, only to feel the reinforced plastic cut into her skin. Aleksei had been pacing the length of the warehouse in front of them—one ear to his mobile phone and the other attuned to his minions—before marching through a set of doors on the far end of the building. He would not be patient for much longer.
So many people thought the mafia or the Bratva—the Russian version—was glamorous, dangerous, an exciting concept from the movies. Few considered what organized crime did to families. How children were impacted. How sisters had to love and fear their brothers simultaneously. Yulia had not grown up wanting to betray her clan, had never considered turning against the organization. But they had betrayed her, hadn’t they? Taking Danny…this was a slight she could never, ever forgive.
“You are a strange boy,” she told him softly. “So obsessed with drinking when we may not even take another breath.”
“Oh, Yulia.” Danny’s elbows dug into her sides. His body’s motion shifted hers as well. “The only breath I want to take is while kissing you.”
God in heaven. How many times in the past two years had she dreamed of kissing Danny Yeo until neither of them could function? But it was not practical to imagine that in the here and now. And she did not know when the people from his agency would arrive. It could be twenty minutes; it could be one hour. They could not rely on outsiders to save them when Aleksei was determined to have his revenge as soon as possible. And Yulia could not afford to wait until her brother returned to gloat.
It hurt. The cuts. The blood welling from the wounds. Yulia had felt worse pains in her life, but she was not so stoic that she could not acknowledge the agony of fighting against her bonds. The iron chains dug into her waist. The zip ties sliced through her wrists and down to the bone. But the fur rippling over her body…the teeth springing into her mouth…oh, that was bliss. It was like death and orgasm. Pain and pleasure hand in hand.
Danny’s distress was plain. “Yulia…”
“Hush, my love.” It was not a whisper so much as a scream. The bear took over, tumbling the chairs they’d been forced into, shattering the chains that had tied them. Yulia had not been her full self in so long—minutes, hours, months, years—that embracing her flesh and her skin and her marrow felt like coming home and being tormented all at once. Even with the blood pouring in rivulets from her arms, she was powerful and whole and strong.
She took the impact of the concrete floor gratefully. Because it was easier on her bulk than it was on Danny’s frail human frame. She would heal. Her love…he could break. And that was something that could not be borne. He was quick, thank goodness, not relying on her ungainly paws to free him or help him stand. No, while she was still shaking off the pain and letting the beast take control, he’d grabbed two lengths of chain and was wielding them like whips.
“Ghost Rider meets Indiana Jones,” her geeky detective said proudly, as if he was fluent in the growls that emanated from low in her throat. Perhaps he was. Danny had always known her, hadn’t he? Always understood.
But the time for further understanding was not now. Not when Anton was sprouting talons and feathers and Aleksei’s other goons were taking on different kinds of fur and fang. As for her brother himself…he was nowhere to be found. Always removed from the violence. Never dirtying his paws or staining his teeth.
That would end today. One way or another.
Yulia let loose a roar and sprang into the fray.
Chapter 33
The setup was simple. Drop a line to a low-level fence who worked on the outskirts of Vasiliev’s organization. Have him “stumble” upon Joe and Neha. Follow the giddy goon to the warehouse even though they already knew full well where it was. Bait the trap. Spring it. The deskbound folks at Third Shift’s headquarters had taken care of the first part of the plan. It was up to the rest of them to play out what came next. Nate hated everything about it. He liked facts. Arguments. Chains of evidence. Cases he could cite. And situations where nobody got shot at. He really liked those.
The team had split up, with Mack driving Joe and Neha to some drop-off spot. And that couldn’t have been a comfortable trip. Joe had slid into the front passenger seat. Neha scooted into the back, hugging the far window right behind the driver. Nate imagined the temperature as something akin to a walk-in freezer and the interior quieter than the Reading Room at the New York Public Library. That had left him with Finn and Grace…which was weird and uncomfortable in a totally different way.
“Selfish? Me? You know I’m a giver, love. Or at least you would if you’d let me show you…”
Nate’s pants were still burning from the look Finn had seared him with back at the riding academy. If Grace was similarly affected, she wasn’t showing it now. Her hands were firm on the steering wheel, her eyes trained on the road ahead. The thing was, Nate wasn’t self-involved enough, or clueless enough, to think she was unaffected. Sure, maybe she didn’t flirt back…but what woman in a professional setting would? And in a black ops organization? There
was too much at stake for a full-on office romance to blow up between them. Still, Grace had shown everyone just how much she cared about the inveterate flirt currently lounging against his side of the SUV when she told that story about saving his life in Mexico.
Nate had watched them both. How they held themselves. What they didn’t say. All things he did in the courtroom or when deposing someone. Grace’s white knuckles had belied her confident voice. Finn’s careless pose against the doorframe had been at odds with the vulnerability in his eyes. And the guy could seriously not stop talking about her, praising her. Even while he was ogling Nate and reminding him of that moment beneath the streetlight. When his Star of David had sparked and sizzled against Finn’s exposed collarbone.
Now was really not the time to contemplate whatever tangled sexual web the vampire was weaving. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Because it was easier than thinking about what awaited them in their immediate future, just a few miles away. One of Aleksei Vasiliev’s warehouses. More mayhem. Potential death.
So, what did it all mean? Was Conlan just a player who pursued everyone with the same vigor? Was it a deep-cover personality trait and not something he actually believed in at all? Did he want to thrall them into some kind of pansexual orgy? It certainly wouldn’t be Nate’s first dip into those waters. He was probably a 4 on the Kinsey scale. He’d dated women in high school, before coming out, and had some pretty wild exploits in undergrad and law school. He’d actually met Dustin at a kink party at Princeton—
Oh shit. Guilt replaced the lust and confusion milling through his brain. D had to be climbing the walls. He’d only given him a few details about how things had gone down tonight…and not nearly enough to ease his worries, which pretty much spanned the Manhattan Bridge. “Can I contact Dustin again? He should probably be updated before he hears whatever ends up on the morning news.”
“Go right ahead, mate. Get in touch.” Finn glanced at him over the back of the seat. Reminding him, strangely, of that night in his firehouse when the vampire had implied Nate and Dustin had been lovers. “Is he touching you? Because that’s an idea I will certainly wank off to in the near future.” But he made no further reference to it, accidental or deliberate. “The good Lord knows, at least one person’s going to need a lawyer when this is all over.”
“And the rest will need body bags,” Grace said grimly as she punched some buttons on the dash and the sound of a dialing mobile phone filtered from the speakers.
Nate didn’t ask how she had Dustin’s number or when she’d programmed it in. Mostly because he didn’t expect to get an answer. Fortunately, D did answer. He picked up on the third ring, his beautiful bass “Yeah?” like music to Nate’s ears. Uncomfortably aware that this wasn’t a private call, he didn’t mince words. He told D that the operation wasn’t done, that he, Neha, and Joe were still very much in danger.
There was silence on the line for a few seconds. And then the sound of a heavy sigh. “Are you telling me you might die, Nathaniel?”
Grace and Finn traded looks in the front seat. Looks that twisted something in the pit of his stomach. Was it strange that he didn’t want to lose people he’d only just met? That he was already afraid tonight would be the last one he ever spent with agents of Third Shift? He’d questioned a lot of things in his life, a lot of the country’s terrible, bullshit decisions. This was one thing he didn’t question at all. “I’m telling you I don’t want to.”
Dustin’s reply was sharp, fierce, and determined. “Good. ’Cause then you’ll fight alongside those people. Just like you fight beside me in court. And I’m gonna be waiting to bail your ass out of whatever mess you make.”
That was what Nate was counting on. D had saved him from countless messes over the years—starting with that orgy at Princeton. He was twenty years older now, but not that much wiser. It was entirely possible, before this was all over, that Dustin would have to save Nate from himself.
* * *
The man taking them to wherever Aleksei Vasiliev was holed up with his sister and Danny Yeo looked exactly like what you’d expect someone named Mickey Hands to look. Loud silk shirt, multiple gold chains resting on a thick mat of chest hair—open to the world despite the chill fall weather—and an equally thick mustache that was liberally streaked with gray. He’d worked Little Odessa for decades, he’d bragged as he slid into the car next to Neha, bringing a cloud of peppery cologne with him. “Before Vasiliev was even born!”
“Nice. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to outlive him,” Joe had growled, tapping his fingertips impatiently on the dash, clanging the cuffs encircling his wrists. Not exactly the most reassuring thing to say to a criminal contact who could turn their whole operation sideways if he felt like it.
But there wasn’t a script for these things, was there? No stage directions. And no end she could flip to in order to reassure herself that the good guys would win. Neha could barely sit still as they neared a series of dark buildings in Midwood…though the prop cuffs that secured her to the door handle were doing a decent job of keeping her in place. Her stomach was tight, her skin tingling. And her heart…it had yet to stop aching. Because, like a fool, she’d left it open when Joe’s was clearly locked up tight. She was trying not to think about him, to lose focus when they had so much to do, but that was nearly impossible when he was just inches away.
She could still taste him on her mouth. That kiss she’d wrested from him while he was trying to wrest control from her. And his scent…that earthy scent of wolf beneath whatever soap he’d scrubbed up with in the riding-center showers. It somehow surrounded her even with the competition of Mickey Hands’s eye-wateringly strong cologne. And with it came the memory of Joe’s brutally tender hands and his cock and how he’d taken her with such passionate desperation over and over again. He’d whispered countless filthy things to her…but he hadn’t made many promises, had he?
“Neha, I’ll make a vow to you right now: I will do anything to keep you safe.”
Except that one. It was the one he was determined to keep…even if that meant sacrificing her happiness and his own. That wasn’t noble. That was selfish. And Neha almost wanted to tell him. To rail and rant at him again, Mack and Mickey Hands be damned.
Except the SUV was slowing. And Mickey was gesturing out the window at the street. “You’ll want to park here,” he said, as if being towed was a huge concern for Third Shift…or for the lowlifes they were pretending to be. “It ain’t a bus lane or anything. No traffic cameras on the corners.”
A largely Hasidic neighborhood, it was quiet for Shabbat. Lights were off, businesses closed, and not just because of the late/early hour. For Vasiliev to do business here seemed particularly evil, calculated. But that was the way of the world, wasn’t it? Wickedness always wormed its way into places of peace. She’d wanted to keep her and Joe away from her gurdwara for that very reason…but there was no real respite, was there? The bad guys would always find you…unless you found them first.
Mack took the keys out of the ignition, slipping them into his pocket as easily as he slipped into the role of the random racist baddie who wanted to use his hostages and Mickey Hands as an introduction to the great Aleksei Vasiliev. He’d won the plum part not just because he was the whitest and most conventional of the operatives at hand, but because Finn and Grace had both been at the club and could be too easily made. “Makes me feel like the Redshirt, honestly,” he’d joked when the assignment was handed down. “Please remember me well, mates.” There were no jokes now. He gestured Joe out of the passenger seat with his Glock and then got Neha out of her side of the SUV, quickly “relocking” her cuffs for Mickey’s benefit. They were fake, Grace had explained back at the safe house. Magician’s tools. Easy to snap out of at a moment’s notice, but realistic enough to pass muster. After Aleksei’s posturing at Kamchatka, it was a fair bet he’d be too busy crowing at getting his prisoner and a bonus back in custody to pay
attention to how secure they were.
A fair bet. Because this was all a gamble. Neha suppressed a shudder as Mack and their new fence friend marched them toward a squat warehouse next to more structures of a similar shape. Joe’s shoulders were thrown back, arrogant and proud, like he didn’t give a damn about what he was walking into. It was a familiar sight. The cocky, angry bastard who didn’t offer up an inch. But even more familiar was the man who smiled at her in bed. Who could rattle off his favorite restaurants and favorite books and debate the merits of Edward versus Jacob. That man had a softness in his eyes and to his mouth. That man’s shoulders were a perfect fit for her head.
She had no idea if she was ever going to see him again. If Joe would allow that. If Aleksei and his men would allow that. One way or another, it would all end before sunrise. And even with that morbid thought in mind, Neha wasn’t prepared when they were pushed through the warehouse door and met with a row of hulking mobsters holding semiautomatic weapons. Nine huge guns. Nine huge supernaturals. Plus their vor, standing several yards behind them—too confident to bother being armed at all. A quick assessment of the rest of the space revealed that Yulia and Danny Yeo weren’t being held there…but they couldn’t be far. Maybe in the next room or something.
Mickey Hands launched into his intro. His thick Brooklyn accent echoing across the cavernous, dimly lit space. Neha was only half listening to his patter and Mack’s occasional interjections, too aware of the gun at her back. Sure, Mack didn’t plan to do anything to her with it, but it didn’t make it any easier to feel the muzzle against her spine.
“I can smell your fear, Doc. And if I can, these guys can, too,” Joe said. Softly but not so softly that his voice didn’t rumble over her like thunder. “See what you get when you get mixed up with me?”
They both knew people could hear them…and the more supes listening meant the more supes who weren’t paying attention to their surroundings. Neha swallowed butterflies, throwing a scowl over her shoulder at Mack before glaring at Joe. “If now isn’t a good time to be afraid, then when is? Let me know, because I’ll pencil that in.” It was equal parts improvisation and truth and a shout-out to what Grace had said to her and Nate barely two hours earlier.
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