Thrown to the Wolves

1. Lyssa

I don’t knowwhat the hell Yuri was doing in a place like this, but I can’t kill him for it, since he’s dead already.

I approach the rundown bar, boots crunching on the broken bottles and debris littering the sidewalk, and try to put myself in Yuri’s shoes instead. There are better places to drink, and worse, but this place in particular is deep in enemy territory—not the kind of place Syndicate members usually venture without a damn good reason.

I figured my hunt for the assassin targeting our members was reason enough, so here I am in this dark part of the city where the shadows run long and deep, and the Sokolov bratva keep control with a vicious approach that—secretly—I admire.

It took a while to dig up the information that Yuri was drinking here the night he was killed, because he was found two blocks over in a parking lot. But eventually, I threatened the right people just enough to get the intel I needed.

And now here I am. The neon sign over the bar buzzes with a sickly glow, barely illuminating the cracked concrete stoop. The sign is just a bottle, and it’s the kind of bar that doesn’t even have a name. Just “the Sokolov place,” according to the information I punched out of my sources.

I pause, scanning the area before I make my next move. Is someone watching me? I’m getting that weird feeling I get just before action happens.

Well, let them watch. When they’re ready for action, I will be, too.

I push open the door. Inside, the air is predictably thick with smoke and the stench of stale beer. A few rough-looking regulars nurse their drinks, heads down like beaten dogs. But over at the bar, a group of loudmouths attract my attention.

A group of them. Crowding around a lone woman who’s sitting there frozen like a deer in headlights. The leering gazes and crude gestures make their intentions clear even from across the room.

Well, that won’t do.

As I stroll towards them, the idiots finally notice me. Recognition flickers in their bleary eyes, and they straighten—rats catching the scent of a predator. It’s almost comical how quickly their bravado withers under my stare.

The woman looks over as well, her eyes haunted and fearful under thick bangs as they meet mine. Hazel eyes, I decide as I get closer. A soft green-brown that reminds me of the shadows in the forests that grow around the estate at Elysium. There’s a delicate vulnerability about her that is completely out of place in this cesspit. Her soft curves are accentuated rather than hidden by her tight jeans and close-cut fluffy red sweater, and she pushes her cascading dark chestnut hair over one shoulder as I stop and look down at her.

She’d be a dream, if not for the wariness in her face.

“Fuck off,” I tell the men.

They fuck off.

I lean against the bar, letting my gaze sweep down that pale throat and back up to those fascinating eyes again. “You lost, sweetheart?”

She lifts her chin, defiance sparking. “No more than you, I guess.”

I grin at her spirit. She would’ve given those chucklefucks a run for their money, I bet. “I’m Lyssa.”

After a long, cautious moment, she offers, “Scarlett.” It comes out slow, sibilant, and I keep watching her lips long after she’s said it, until her tongue darts out along that lush lower lip.

Then I slide onto a barstool next to her. “Not to be a walking cliché, but what’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?” I ask her as the bartender approaches.

Scarlett’s gaze darts away, almost shyly. “I was supposed to meet someone here. A date, I guess.” She lets out a rueful laugh. “But I’m starting to think I got catfished. And now I—well, I’m a little nervous to walk back to my car alone.”

Yeah. I bet she is.

“Whaddyawan?” the bartender snaps, all one word.

What I want is a word with him—about Yuri, about what went down the last night Yuri was here, the last night of his life…

But Scarlett is sitting here like a cornered fox surrounded by hounds. As I look around, every eye is making its way toward her again, skating away when they see me glancing their way. Rabid dogs, every one of them, even the ones pretending to mind their own business. And once I’m gone, they’ll tear her apart. A pang of protectiveness stirs in my chest.

It wouldn’t take but a minute to walk her back to her car, then come back here to ask my questions. And a wolf can certainly handle a few dogs.

I turn my back on the bartender and lean closer to Scarlet, taking in the soft, anxious crease of her brow. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

She shakes her head, silky hair swaying around her cleavage tantalizingly. “I live uptown. I’ve never really…been to this part of the city before.”

My decision’s been made for me. I can’t leave her here like this, and who knows if the bartender will start a fight once I start poking around. I jerk my head towards the door. “C’mon, let’s get you out of this shithole. If your car hasn’t been jacked yet.”

Surprise flits across her face before melting into a grateful smile that does something stupidly fluttery to my insides. She puts a hand on my arm. “I’d appreciate that, Lyssa.”

I tuck her arm around mine, just to make it clear who she’s with, and we make our way to the exit, a few last drunken catcalls and jeers fading behind us. I’ll have a word with those gentlemen once I head back. But for now, the night air is a welcome reprieve from the bar’s stifling atmosphere.

“So, Scarlett...” I give her a sidelong glance, taking in her profile. “What possessed you to willingly meet some strange guy in that pit?”

“Uh, a strange woman, actually,” she tells me.

This Scarlett just gets more and more interesting.

A wry chuckle leaves her tempting lips. “And honestly? I was bored of all the clubs uptown. Thought I’d try something…adventurous. I met her on an app. I mean, if she even exists.”

“And you agreed to meet her here?” This chick must be naive with a capital dumb. But maybe that’s not fair. “Let me guess—you’re a hopeless romantic who likes the idea of reforming a bad girl.”

Her ears flush an adorable shade of pink, visible even in the low yellow streetlights. “Look, I get that it was a stupid idea,” she admits with a self-deprecating grin. “This adventure didn’t exactly deliver the grand romance I was hoping for.”

“Well, the night is young,” I tell her, unable to resist flirting.

It’s been a while.

I don’t like to bed the same woman twice—for their protection, I tell myself. No point making some innocent lesbian a target—and even in a city the size of Chicago, the lesbian community is a little insular, so while I have a rep as a player, I also have a rep as amazing in bed.

I do okay, is what I’m saying.

But this girl… There’s something about her. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Our walk is unhurried, lending a sense of lightheartedness I wouldn’t normally allow myself. But I don’t miss the way Scarlett’s gaze darts about, studying her surroundings with a wariness that belies her soft demeanor.

“You’re okay with me,” I tell her, pulling her a little closer so that her shoulder is flush with mine. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

We reach a battered sedan sooner than I’d like, and Scarlett turns to face me. “Well, this is me.” She smiles shyly. “Thanks for walking with me. But now I’m worried about you. Can I drive you somewhere?”

I snort. “You don’t need to worry about me, honey.” No, it’s those assholes back at the bar who should be worried. I plan to go back there not just to interrogate the bartender about Yuri, but to remind the customers of their manners.

But I take an extra moment to enjoy the way Scarlett’s nose turns up at the end, a pretty, perky little swoop that makes me wonder if her tits do the same thing.

Her smile has changed into something closer to a hopeful smirk. “Hey, do you wanna maybe go somewhere else and get a dr?—”

The words die on her lips as figures detach from the shadows, surrounding us with eerie silence.

Shit. I’m brought right back down to earth—back down to Sokolov territory, to be exact.

My hand strays to the gun holstered invisibly at my back as the men close in, their grins all teeth, except where they’re missing a few. Five—no, six of them.

Eh. That’s decent odds, even with Scarlett to protect.

“Well, well, well…” A thick Russian accent grates against my ears. “If it isn’t the Big Bad Wolf.”

The Sokolovs have had an issue with the Syndicate for a while now. Some little misunderstanding over a debt they didn’t pay, and a few of their guys I killed as a helpful reminder that it was overdue. I suppose it’s no surprise they’re looking to even up.

Scarlett tenses beside me, and I slide in front of her, pushing her behind me where she’ll be safest. But I keep my hand on her hip, because some primal part of me wants to keep her close, feel her warmth and softness pressed up against my back.

“Don’t suppose you mutts would be willing to call it a night?” I drawl. “Places to be, and all that.”

The brute who spoke lets out a grating chuckle. “Not a chance, darogaya.” He pulls out a knife.

Knives are quiet, at least. The last thing Hadria would want is police attention from a gunfight. Not right now. Things are tricky in Chicago right now, as she’s endlessly reminding us all. So I let the hand behind me slide from gun to blade and take it out, twisting it in the light, just so this asshole can see I’m not going to walk away.

“At least let the girl leave.” I twirl the knife in my fingers and use it to point over my shoulder at Scarlett.

The guy spits on the ground. Delightful. “We have a score to settle,” he says. “For Yuri.”

“Yuri? He wasn’t one of yours.”

“He was my cousin,” the guy growls. “No matter if he ran with you honorless bitches in the Syndicate.”

Well, that’s just rude.

Still, it explains at last what Yuri was doing in this part of town the night he died. He did have Sokolov relatives, I remember now—we’d asked him about that when he wanted to join the Syndicate. The bratva were on the way out, he’d said at the time. He had no interest in drug running, and the Syndicate suited him better.

He’d been a popular member, too. I know Aurora, whose training group he was in, had liked him very much. And Aurora, that little Suzy Sunshine, has changed things for all of us in the Syndicate, brought us all closer, somehow.

So Yuri might have been this fucker’s cousin, but he’d been my brother.

We stare each other down. Behind me, I hear Scarlett’s breath hitch, her body vibrating with nerves against my back. Poor thing has no idea what she’s stumbled into.

“I didn’t kill Yuri, you morons,” I say. “In fact, that’s why?—”

It happens in a blur, like it always does—a storm of flashing steel, grunts, and the solid thunk of a blade sliding through flesh and muscle. My world narrows to the one dance ingrained in my very being—move, strike, counter, survive.

Always survive.

I lose myself in it, the rhythm of combat as natural to me as breathing. And joy thrills through me as I unleash every ounce of pent-up rage and frustration into each blow, each parry.

Gotta enjoy your work, right? And these are the only times I really feel alive.

But a panicked shriek behind me reminds me that there’s an audience to this particular show, and I switch at once to a more defensive tactic—a non-lethal one.

The last thing I need is this Scarlett pointing me out in a line-up. Hadria would be pissed if she had to shell out any more bribes, especially after the fortune she spent covering up the attack on Elysium.

The last of the Sokolovs hits the pavement with a meaty thud, unconscious, but still breathing. I pivot on the ball of my foot, fists raised, ready in case one of them has dragged himself up from the ground to try again. But the only sound is Scarlett’s ragged breathing as she crouches against the side of her car.

When I take a step toward her, she flinches. And those eyes, those lovely forest pools, are wide and afraid.

Damn it. I don’t think I’m getting laid tonight after all.