by Addison Fox
Something big was going on.
Finley took in the mobster’s gaze and abstractly remembered that her grandfather had had hazel eyes. With small flecks of gold and a dark rim around the irises. He’d been warm and fun, with a perpetual smile on his face whenever she was in his presence.
“Now, Ms. McCrae!” A gun jabbed into her stomach and the warm memory of her grandfather faded away as cold, harsh reality replaced it.
She was going to die.
Grey’s stomach clenched as he pushed past Drake toward the door. How had she gotten in there?
And how in fucking hell had she gotten past him? She’d been perched on her favorite bar stool in Equinox half an hour ago.
With steady patience and a calm he didn’t feel, Grey cracked the door a fraction of an inch and peered into the common area of the warehouse, taking stock of the players.
Although everyone was dressed in matching silk suits and expensive Italian loafers, the sides were clear, almost like an invisible line ran down the center of the room. And while the two sides might be enemies, all the players were aligned in their focus as one of the lower-level goons held Finley in his arms, a gun against her side.
She was dressed in running clothes—what Grey could only assume was her disguise for getting close to the warehouse. The long legs he’d admired in her fitted pencil skirts were even more impressive in runner’s shorts, but the skimpy attire made her look even more vulnerable.
Another wave of anger torpedoed his system and Grey took in the stark terror that covered her face like a mask. Her porcelain skin was paler than usual and her bright blue eyes were huge round saucers in her face, telegraphing her terror.
He never should have talked to her tonight. Never should have given her an indication of what he suspected. He’d known the meet was going down and he shouldn’t have created the pretense of discussing it with her.
So, damn it, why had he?
Because the moments you spend with her are the sweetest in your day.
“How do you want to play this?”
At the sound of Drake’s hushed voice, Grey moved away from the door. “She’s the priority.”
“Absolutely.” Drake nodded
“I want to get her and get out. We can come back for the apple later.”
“Where are you going to take her? After you get her out, do you think you can get her mind wiped?”
“Fuck.” Grey gripped his hair and tugged. “She’s not very susceptible. I already tested it out on her a few months ago, in case I needed to use the Mind Meld.”
“Didn’t work?”
“Nope. Not in the slightest.”
She hadn’t bought it, he remembered, as he’d tried wiping the conversation they’d just had. Instead, she’d looked at him with a small smile playing the edges of her lush lips as those bright blue eyes stayed steady as a rock on his.
No hazing, no clouding, no loss of memory. Nothing.
She’d forgotten nothing.
“Let’s play it like the Artemis affair.”
Drake’s laughter was a low rumble between them. “Hurt as many as possible before we port out.”
“Exactly.”
“And if I can snag the apple?”
“It’s secondary, but take the opportunity if you can get it.”
“Let’s do it. You head for Finley, I’ll come in right behind the guy who’s holding her.” At his nod, Drake added, “I’ll count us off.”
“See you back at the ranch.”
“On my mark,” Drake began. “Three, two, one. Now!”
Both disappeared in a rush, the outer room their destination.
In the blink of an eye, Grey had his hands on Finley’s shoulders as Drake disarmed the goon holding her with a swift, downward chop of his hand. The gun at her side clattered to the floor as shouts erupted around them.
The tight troop of men moved forward in a rush and Grey kicked out, satisfied when he heard the crunch of bone as his foot connected with a kneecap.
“Get out of here, Grey!” Drake shouted at him as he dropped the man who’d been holding Finley, then launched himself into a throng of thugs advancing on them. “I see the target; then I’m right behind you.”
Grey wanted to argue, wanted to tell his Warrior brother to get the hell out and they’d come back later, but he was distracted by the trembling woman in his arms.
“You?” Finley stared up at him as her mouth dropped open on an O of surprise.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
Tightening his grip on Finley, he threw them both into the port. As their bodies left the warehouse, Grey heard the gunshot.
Drake saw the apple lapel pin the moment they ported into the warehouse. The two sides had clearly demarcated themselves in the room, with the bosses of each family surrounded. The setup was so clear it was almost laughable in its simplicity.
Circle of thugs, kingpin in the middle.
The smug look on Franco Gavelli’s face gave him a momentary flash of Magnus earlier that evening and Drake made his decision.
He wasn’t leaving without the apple.
Wise? Probably not. Satisfying? Abso-fucking-lutely.
It also hadn’t escaped his notice the thug holding Finley was operating under the influence of the Gavelli family. With the capture of a public official, it was clear the apple had done significant harm in a short period of time.
The fact that he’d feel good bashing the self-satisfied look off the guy’s face in the process was only a small side benefit.
The whirl of air that accompanied Grey and Finley’s departure gave him the opening he needed. Throwing himself into another port as gunfire erupted in a loud burst, Drake heard the resounding confusion in stereo as he reappeared and fell into the center of the circle of thugs. The port was near perfect, landing him within an inch of Gavelli.
The man’s eyes widened in his doughy face as Drake reached for his lapels. Hand on the apple, Drake nearly had it when the guys protecting their boss picked up on his intent. The goon to Gavelli’s immediate right lifted his gun and from his peripheral Drake could see it was aimed straight at his midsection.
Drake pressed one hand on the boss’s shoulder for balance and executed a sharp tug on the pin, satisfied when the silky material of Gavelli’s suit gave way in his hands. As his fingers closed over the Golden Apple, he pushed himself into his port.
And as the air whirled around him, the unmistakable sound of gunfire swelled once again in his ear. Drake felt the searing fire in his rib cage as his body floated into the ether.
Emerson paced her room, unable to calm down after the fireworks with Magnus. Four years gone and nothing had changed. In fact, it seemed as if things had gotten worse.
What was it with the whole power play about how shitty her life was?
Her life was fine, thank you very much. She lived a vibrant, interesting life and she liked it that way. She was satisfied.
And what about Drake? her conscious taunted. Are you satisfied there?
Before she could even attempt to engage in her daily argument with herself, the air around her grew heavy, like a threatening storm, and the object of her thoughts fell to the floor of her bedroom in a heavy rush.
“Drake!”
Alarm bells went off in her system immediately as she took in the odd way he lay on the floor. Rushing to him, she barely held back a scream as she took in the blood that covered his side.
“Drake! Oh my God. Drake.” Pulling at his body to roll him toward his back, she saw where he had a hand pressed to his side, a raw, angry wound gaping under his fingers.
“Hang on, baby. Hang on.” Rushing from her room, she hit the hall closet and grabbed a handful of towels.
Could he be fatally shot?
A long, low groan greeted her as she ran back into her room, the sound sweeter than she ever would have believed. She didn’t have all the ins and outs of his abilities, but he’d always seemed so invincible—so perfect, really—the idea that he could b
e hurt like this tore at something inside of her.
Pressing a towel to the wound, she pulled at his hand once she got the proper pressure on it. Another heavy groan drifted from his lips and she linked his fingers with hers, all the while maintaining pressure with her other hand. “Drake, can you hear me?”
“Emerson?”
“I’m here. I—” She broke off at the shock of seeing the towel under her hand fill with blood. “I’m here. What happened to you?”
“Got shot.”
He may have been in pain, but she couldn’t miss the utter disgust in his raspy voice. “I can see that. But what happened?”
“Helping Grey. Fucker got off a shot before I could get out of there.”
“What fucker? Grey shot you?”
“No. The crime boss’s goon.”
“You went after a crime boss?” Emerson kept her movements gentle as she reached for a fresh towel. She was pleased to see the bleeding was definitely slowing. And it looked less angry, somehow…less raw.
“Grey did.”
“Well, why the hell did you go, too? Do you both have a death wish?”
Drake opened one eye, his green gaze hazed with pain. “That’s what we do.”
“Do you make it a habit to get shot?”
He opened the other eye. “It’s an occupational hazard I usually manage to avoid.”
“So what happened tonight?” Emerson heard the tough edge to her voice—reveled in it actually, because it meant she had some measure of control back over herself—and poked at him. “Who’d you piss off? And what could possibly make you think it was a good idea to go after one of New York’s crime families? Who was it, by the way?”
“The Gavellis.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Emerson almost dropped the towel as she focused on him. “They’re meaner than snakes and they’ve been all over the news for their suspected antics lately. Bombings. Drownings. Even a delightful buried-alive story that gave me the chills the other night.”
“Which is the exact reason Grey and I needed to pay them a visit. They’ve been getting some help.”
“Help?”
“From a supernatural source.”
“Oh.”
Wind knocked from her sails, Emerson focused on tending to Drake’s wound. Keeping her movements gentle, she lifted the towel, pleased to see the wound continuing to close. “Will it close all the way?”
“It’ll heal—but not fully until the bullet comes out.”
When he began moving around to reach for his feet, she clamped a hand on his arm. “What are you doing?”
“I need to get it out.”
“With what?”
“My Xiphos.”
“Drake.” Emerson pushed harder on his arm to keep him still. “What are you after?”
“I’ve got my weapon strapped to my ankle. It’s a really big knife. I can use it to remove the bullet.”
“You most certainly will not.”
“Why not?”
“It’s dirty, for one.”
“Look, it hurts more to leave it there.”
“I’ll get it.” Shifting, she scooted back to give herself easier access and reached for his ankle, unstrapping the knife sheathed there.
He wasn’t kidding. The blade was wicked-looking and a little less than a foot in length. Holding it up, she summoned fire at her fingertips and let the flames wash over the length of the blade, paying particular attention to the tip.
“What are you doing?”
“Sterilizing it.”
“I can’t catch a disease from it, Emerson.”
She focused on the flame, unwilling to acknowledge his muttered complaints. “Roll to your side.”
“It’s going to be hot.”
“Which means it’ll cauterize the wound as I remove the bullet.”
“Just do it quick.”
Leaning forward, she placed a firm hand on his shoulder as she pointed the knife at the entrance of the wound. “Hang on.”
Emerson heard Drake’s sharp exhale of breath and fought to keep her hands steady as she dug for the bullet. This should be easier. She continued to probe the torn flesh at his side. Where was the damn thing?
“You drilling for oil?” Drake muttered through gritted teeth.
“I’m trying to be gentle.”
“I know.” Drake’s free hand moved up to cover her left one, where she’d shifted to hold it against his chest, and squeezed hers in reassurance.
She felt the quivering in her belly and exhaled on a deep breath. The bullet had to be in there. It was just a matter of finding it. She could do this.
“Just focus, baby. You’ll get it.”
Drake’s voice drifted over her, the calm reassurance—and absolute belief in her—a soothing balm to her pounding heart.
She shifted the blade slightly and felt the resistance immediately.
“Got it.” Digging the point a hairsbreadth deeper, she felt it as the tip of the blade notched under the bullet. “Hang on to me.”
Drake’s hand tightened on hers, but there was no other indication of his pain. No other indication of how badly he must be suffering.
On a final rush of motion, she had the bullet out in one smooth move, the now-misshapen metal falling to the floor.
Immediately, his skin began to mend even faster than before. She grabbed a fresh towel and pressed it to the wound, but it was obvious he wouldn’t need it much longer.
Drake’s big hand squeezed hers. “Thank you.”
“You…you’re welcome.”
She still gripped the knife so hard her knuckles were white. She tossed it across the room, where it clattered along the floorboard. As soon as the knife left her hand, uncontrollable shakes gripped her entire body.
“Emerson?”
Her name on Drake’s lips sounded very far away as she turned to look at him.
“Emerson? Are you all right?”
She tried to snap out the words “of course,” but they wouldn’t form. Instead, a wash of hot tears filled her eyes as another round of shakes gripped her shoulders.
Drake struggled to sit up—should he be doing that?—and reached for her. “Come here.”
“F…fi…fine.” Her teeth chattered so hard she couldn’t form a word. “I…I’m fi…fine.”
“Sure you are.” He pulled her close and Emerson wanted to feel embarrassed, but all she could feel was the delicious warmth that seeped into her skin wherever he touched her. Drake shifted back slightly to look at her, those mysterious genie’s eyes boring into hers. “Thank you.”
An embarrassing hiccup escaped her lips as she said, “You’re welcome.”
When Drake’s arms wrapped around her once again, Emerson did something really embarrassing.
She broke down and sobbed.
Chapter Five
“You want to tell me what just happened?”
“Not really,” Grey snapped out as he reached for a crystal decanter on the credenza behind his desk.
“Can I at least have one of those? I don’t quite have my sea legs yet.” Finley’s tone was low, but he had to give her credit. That sexy voice never quavered.
Grey gave the legs in question a quick look before turning back to pouring. He heard the light clink of the decanter against his crystal-cut glass and struggled to keep his hand from shaking as he reached for a second one. “Of course.”
He poured her a couple of fingers of bourbon and carried their glasses back to the leather couches on the opposite side of his office. Everything looked exactly as he’d left it an hour before, even if it felt entirely different.
She was here after nearly getting herself killed by a bunch of unrepentant thugs who would have reveled in her death.
Focusing on the fact she was safe, he handed over the bourbon and had to give her credit for the steady blue gaze that never wavered, even as she took a sip of the harsh liquor.
“I had a feeling there were a few secrets here.” She glanced around th
e room. “I can’t say I’m all that disappointed to have my instincts proven correct, especially since I suspect that’s how you saved me tonight.”
“Ms. McCrae,” Grey began.
“Haven’t we gotten a bit past that? I’m Finley.” And to prove it, she moved forward, set her glass on the coffee table with a soft clink and turned toward him, laying a hand on his knee.
Grey hadn’t been a teenager since Rome fell, but he’d be hard-pressed to say he’d ever felt so awkward around a woman in the ensuing years. “Finley.”
“That’s better. Now, what the hell is going on? How’d you know I’d be in that warehouse and how did you and your friend get in like that?”
“I was at that warehouse because you gave me the tip. Earlier this evening. Remember?”
The impatient huff as she exhaled on a heavy breath was unmistakable. “Yeah, but it was the way you got in.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“You just…appeared.”
Deflect. Evade. Lie. He’d had centuries of practice. “We were hiding in the storeroom.”
“Between the storeroom and the middle of the warehouse. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Okay, fine. How do you think we got in?”
“I’m a logical person, Grey. I have to be. I’m a lawyer. I deal in facts and things that can be seen and touched. Things that are proven.”
“And?”
She brushed a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “There is no logical explanation for how you arrived. You just…appeared.” Finley said it again as she reached for her glass, her puzzled gaze focused on the amber liquid.
Grey shifted back to his original strategy and sought to deflect the conversation and turn it around. Put her on the defensive. “Are you going to report what happened this evening?”
“Report what?”
“To the DA? To the cops. I wouldn’t blame you for either. They may be a slippery bunch of thugs, but they still threatened to kill you.” He took another sip of his bourbon. Even as he asked the questions, he knew he could never let her put voice to them.