Chapter 23 Ronan
Eva
The coffee tasted like burnt plastic. The eggs were greasy. The diner echoed with the sound of scraping forks, bored chatter, and the steady hum of a refrigerator on its last legs. It was perfect. It was normal. I planned to sit here until my memories of Malach Whitaker faded into a bad dream.
Then the door swung open, and normal left the building in a hurry.
Three guys walked in. They weren't locals. Locals had a relaxed slump to their shoulders, a familiarity with cracked vinyl and sticky menus. These guys stood too straight. Their eyes were too sharp, scanning the room as if they were looking for something specific.
They weren't looking for a plate of meatloaf.
My instincts, the same ones that warned me Malach was dangerous before I saw a single claw, began screaming. My heart pounded, and the coffee in my stomach turned to ice.
I kept my head down, pretending to be fascinated by the greasy smear of ketchup on my plate. I slid my hand under the table, my fingers wrapping around the grip of my Glock. The cold, familiar steel was a small comfort.
They fanned out, moving with practiced grace. One headed to the counter, another by the door, and the third, the biggest one with a neck like a tree trunk and a fist-sized face, started walking toward my booth.
My whole body stiffened. Every nerve ending screamed for me to run. But where? The door was blocked. I could jump out of the window, but my healing wrist wouldn't take the impact.
The big guy slid into the booth across from me. The vinyl groaned under his weight. He smelled like a wet dog that's been rolling in something dead.
"Evangeline Harlow," he said. His voice was a low, guttural growl. He had a small, white scar on his chin that looked like a crescent moon. A shitty, dollar-store version of the one behind my ear.
"Who's asking?" I said, my voice tight. I didn't look up. I kept my eyes on the ketchup smear.
"My name is Fen," he said. "My alpha, Ronan, would like a word."
"Tell your alpha I'm not taking visitors," I said, my thumb stroking the safety on my Glock. On. Off. On.
"He's not asking for a visit," Fen said, a hint of amusement in his tone. "He's requesting you return what's his."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said. The lie was thin.
"The torc, Evangeline." He leaned forward, and the stench of him washed over me. "The collar of the First Wolf. You stole it. Ronan knows you were at The Hollow."
My blood ran cold and I glanced at him, a quick, assessing look. His eyes were a flat, muddy brown, but there was something else in them, a predatory glint that I recognized.
"Tell Ronan if he wants it, he can come and get it himself," I said, my voice a low hiss.
Fen smiled, a slow, ugly spreading of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "He appreciates your spirit. He really does. But he's a busy wolf. So he sent us to collect." He reached into his jacket, and I tensed, ready to draw.
He didn't pull a gun. He pulled out a photo and slid it across the table. It was a picture of a little girl, about seven years old, with pigtails and a gap-toothed grin. Jed's daughter. Lily.
Sure, I never met her, and I have no personal feelings for this child but the kid inside me, the one who feared everything, the one who learned to survive alone, recoiled. The kid in me wanted to cry. The grown-ass woman in me wanted to put a bullet through this smug bastard's throat.
"Ronan has friends in low places," Fen said, tapping the photo with a thick finger. "He knows all about the Iron Hollow Pack. He knows about their... families. He'd hate for anything to happen to them. An accident. You know how it is."
Rage, hot and blinding, surged through me. "You touch that kid," I said, my voice a low, dangerous growl that didn't sound like me at all, "and I'll skin you alive."
Fen's smile widened. "There's the fire everyone was talking about." He leaned back, relaxing, because he thought he'd won. He thought he had me. "The torc, Evangeline. Bring it to Nashville. We paid a lot for your services. We expect you to deliver." He slid a napkin across the table. On it was an address. "Tomorrow. Midnight. Don't be late, or our pups get a new chew toy."
He stood up, a mountain of muscle and cheap intimidation. "And Eva?" he said, turning back. "Don't tell Malach. He's not invited to this party."
He and his two friends left, the door swinging shut behind them, leaving me in the suffocating silence of the diner. The smell of stale coffee and burnt toast was suddenly overwhelming.
I stared at the napkin. The address burned into my retinas.
I had two choices. I could run. I could get on my bike and keep going west until I hit the ocean, then find a boat and disappear. I could leave Lily, and Jed, and the whole pack of monsters to their fate. They weren't my problem.
I picked up the photo. The little girl's face, bright and innocent, seemed to mock me. She didn't ask for any of this. She didn't ask to be a pawn in a pissing match between two assholes.
And neither did I.
I threw a twenty on the table, grabbed my Glock, and walked out of the diner.
My Ducati was parked under a tree. I swung my leg over the engine. I didn't hesitate. I just pointed the bike east and rode.