Chapter 116 116

Chapter 116 116
Primal, sort of. We’re just two animals touching each other on a cold night to keep the wild darkness at bay.

I look up at Daniil. He’s looking back down at me. The beast in his eyes is alive and well. That does things to me, too, just like his words did.

“Come here, princess,” he growls, pulling my back onto his lap.

I don’t even have to try—he slides inside me like we were sculpted for one another. He fills me up in one deep thrust. All I can do is cling to his shoulders, murmuring nonsense syllables.

I start riding him slowly, trying to catch my breath, but at the same time, desperate to make him lose his.

Sex is a different experience this time around. I look into his eyes and I see more than the stoic killer who pulled me out of that river under the bridge. I see more than the cold don who walked back into my life like he had a right to be in it. I see more than just the man I’d spent a decade fantasizing about.

I see the broken boy. The disappointed son. The fierce protector.

The one trying to save everything he’s already lost.

I see my own pain inside of his. He came back into my life because of dumb luck, or because of blind coincidence, or because of a puppet master called fate that thinks it’s funny to ram polar opposites into each other’s lives like spiritual bumper cars. But he came back, and now that he’s here, all I can feel or hope for is what he promised to Isla.

An adventure, he called it. The tiny sliver of a chance for a happily-ever-after.

I never used to believe such a thing was possible. Since the day I ran down the steps of that chapel, crying and bleeding, I thought I’d left happily-ever-afters in the rearview.

Now, I’m not so sure.

I’m still not hopeful enough to truly believe that this one night will change anything. But I am hopeful enough to leave room for that to happen, just in case.

And if that makes me naïve…

I think I’m finally okay with that.

23

DANIIL

I sneak out while Kinsley is still sleeping.

I leave her spread across the bed, looking like a Vitruvian angel with a messy halo of hair. She’s probably going to wake up wondering where I am. I wanted so badly to stay there with her. To stare at her, hold her, feel her warmth, smell her sweetness.

But a text came in the middle of the night.

Our fake IDs are ready. Which means I am officially out of time. No more hiding in the mountains and playing make-believe with my daughter and her mother. No more pretending that I’m anything other than what I’ve always been: a killer, and the son of a killer, without any hope of redemption for my sins.

Petro sent a pin for a meetup point. I walked there under cover of darkness, and now, I’ve been waiting almost twenty minutes for that dipshit, but he still hasn’t shown up. This stretch of road is wide, flanked by rolling pastures that seem to stretch on into infinity.

I turn at the sound of an approaching vehicle. It’s a beat-up old Camaro gunning its way up the road towards me. I’m skeptical that it’s Petro—he’s never been a fan of muscle cars; “too ostentatious,” he always says, “whereas I’m more of a subtle type of cool”—until he pulls to a stop and grins at me.

His smile is all wrong, though. On closer inspection, his whole face is all wrong.

He’s got a devil of a shiner and his nose is definitely not pointed at the same angle it was when I last saw him. He gets out of the car, slams the door, and runs at me like a puppy who’s seeing his owner after a couple of weeks away.

“Buddy!” He slams into me and gives my back two solid thumps. “Didja miss me?”

“Get off me.”

He makes sure to hang on tight for another five seconds before he finally releases me. “Missed those hugs. You really put your whole heart into them. Makes a guy feel loved.”

“I don’t know why I thought having your face rearranged would change your mood.”

Petro looks aghast at the mere suggestion. “And let those assholes win? Fuck that.”

I can’t help but squint at his injuries. They look worse than he described them over the phone. “Did I mention he’s going to pay for this?”

“You did,” Petro says. “And I appreciate that. But let’s be real: this was never about hurting me. In his eyes, I’m only an extension of you.”

“Petro—”

“No, I’m serious. I’m your right hand, yes, and we all know I can toot my own horn with the best of ‘em. But he just wanted to put his hands on you, sobrat. He couldn’t, so he put his hands on me instead. Metaphorically speaking.”

I grimace and change the subject. “You have the IDs?”

Petro pulls out the package from his jacket pocket and hands it to me. I tear it open and cast a critical eye over them. I’ve been using the same forger for the past seven years. Gustaf’s work has always been impeccable, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut.

“Good. These will check out.” I notice him shifting in place like a little kid who needs to pee. It’s a telltale sign. Normally, I’d decline to indulge his questions, but he’s earned the right. “What is it?”

“How are things going? Like, on the home front?”

Home front. The words taste strange. I can’t say that I’ve ever had a home front before. “Fine.”

“So you aren’t bored out of your mind?”

I don’t blame him for assuming as much. Not so long ago, the idea of lying low and staying out of the action would never have even occurred to me as an option.

“No,” I say in subtle amazement. “I guess not.”

“Didn’t think so,” Petro agrees. “You don’t look bored at all.”

“How’s Emma?”

He raises his eyebrows. “She’s fine. Gets about with her life. She works hard, parties hard, makes questionable choices when it comes to men she meets at bars. But otherwise, there’s no reason to assume that Gregor’s even watching her. I actually think we should pull the sentries. It’s a waste of resources.”

“No. Keep eyes on her.”

He nods, still fidgety. “Fine. So, Dan… what next?”

I take a beat. I think about how much longer I can dare to prolong this for. The conclusion is always the same. No matter how many times I hem and haw and reassess from new angles, there’s only one course of action.

“The time for lying low is done,” I say. “It’s time to act.”

I expected Petro to whoop and holler and do his normal shtick. But to my surprise, he looks more contemplative than I’ve ever seen him before.