Chapter 13
Vanya
I don’t slow my speed until we hit an old frontage road, my Bentley’s bumper loose and bouncing with each little divot in the pavement.
A few miles down, a neon sign flickers above the tree line.
Lincoln Motorlodge.
Paige keeps her gaze fix straight ahead, the way people do when they’re so far out of their depth, their original mental compass has snapped.
I park behind the building, out of sight from the road so the damage is difficult to spy. It took some stomping and jumping, but I got the hood smoothed out enough to not block my view while driving. One of my smashed headlights lies in the back seat.
Now we wait.
The only thing stirring is a guy hacking up a lung in the stairwell. No cars pass by on the nearby highway.
This place is as safe as it’s going to get.
Paige is still shaken.
Not daring to leave her alone, I circle to the passenger side.
As I open the door, the metal groans in protest. She doesn’t even flinch. “Time to get out, Beautiful.”
She blinks, just once, then gathers herself and exits the car.
Grasping her hand, I guide her ahead. She doesn’t shy from the touch or lean in. Just walks, trancelike, into the chemical-infused lobby.
The gray-haired woman behind the desk barely glances up as she tells me the rate. Cash up front. I overpay, and she slides a key across the grime stuck like glue to the counter. I thank her while keeping a watchful eye on Paige, who’s still in a daze.
I lead Paige back out, grab three bags from the trunk, and head to our room with her tagging along behind me like a lost duckling.
As expected, our lodgings for the night consist of one queen-sized bed in the middle of the room and a rickety green nightstand.
The overhead lights buzz and flicker. The ceiling’s damaged, and the wallpaper’s yellowed from smoke.
Stains on the dingy, threadbare carpet remind me of vomit, and I can smell the bathroom from here.
Delightful.
But it’s nondescript and tucked out of sight, so the roach motel’s perfect for us.
In further proof that she’s not herself, Paige follows me inside without hesitation.
I close the door, throw the bolt, and jam the security brace under the knob.
Cheap, sticky fabric shifts over the filmy windows, blocking the outside world.
I shove open the bathroom door, checking the shower, under the sink, and the window.
I discover only filth and a drain that barely remembers cleaners.
Through it all, Paige hovers by the bed, a statue of exhaustion and shock. Her skirt’s ripped, and her hair’s tangled.
She’s an entirely different woman.
A woman in pain rather than the controlled, rigid archivist. Someone raw and hollow who’s not even pretending to function.
I lick my lips to distract from the sick taste in my mouth. “Have a seat.”
She obeys without protest, thunking down on the edge of the mattress, causing the springs to wheeze and cough.
I grab the bag with first aid supplies, crouch in front of her, and pry away the purse from her clutched fingers. I inspect both wrists for bruises. Finding nothing, I check under her sleeves, peeling the cardigan back but leaving it on since she’s still in shock.
She doesn’t fight.
At my urging, she flips her hands over. Her palm’s red from holding her purse for so long. Next, I focus on her face, hairline, and scalp. If she has a head wound, I’ll rush her straight to the hospital, risk be damned.
Thankfully, she’s in the clear. No bumps, bites, blood, or bruises. Nothing that indicates “broken.”
She flinches but refrains from pulling away.
I tilt her chin left, then right. Though she’s somehow unharmed, rage still boils in my gut.
Those bastards could’ve killed her.
I step back, clenching my fists. “I need to check your ribs next. Let me know if anything hurts.” My voice has gone ragged, not because of Paige, but because I want to break someone’s neck.
She stays silent as I probe the bones to her spine, down to her hips to each leg. Her right ankle appears a bit discolored, but the joint moves well without any binding.
Paige doesn’t react.
With the most important work done, I spin away, staring at the walls while I struggle to regroup.
This morning, I was betting on her looking for the book, certain I was so close to finishing. Even when Colvin showed up, I still thought I had things under control.
Then those assholes ran her off the road.
This must be book-related. Other than her proximity to our puzzle, Paige has no connection to anything dangerous.
I’m willing to bet my best suit that Gio Falcone is fucking with us the same way he did with Kirill Khitrenko and Kolya Ilyin when they embarked on the first couple stretches of this wild goose chase.
That’s what’s messing with my mind.
We found the traitor and ousted him. Sasha, once our brother, now has a bounty on his head.
So how does anyone know about Paige?
Could we have another mole in our ranks? I find the mere thought beyond appalling.
What could I do about such a thing, though?
Sure, I’m a fixer, and Roman depends on me to quietly address his problems…but I don’t think I can fix this.
As the room closes in, I focus on my surroundings in an effort to chase away the looming frustration over my impotence.
The seventies psychedelic wallpaper appears to be melting. On the ceiling, a water stain blooms, brown edging into black and spreading in a shape reminiscent of highway roadkill.
I gesture at the general space. “This wallpaper’s a cry for help.”
The mattress wheezes again. I glance around as Paige shifts on the bed to face me.
Her enormous eyes are red-rimmed but clear. “There’s only one point of egress. It’s a firetrap. We shouldn’t stay here.”
Are you kidding me?
“I just dragged you from a literal ambush, and you’re critiquing my hideout choice?”
She stares like she’s never seen me before. “You think you saved me.” She releases a hollow, broken laugh.
“I did save you.” I cross the room in a few long strides. “You even thanked me for saving you!”
“Which is what you wanted me to think!” She rises from the bed and shoves my chest. “You didn’t save me from anything you didn’t set up. Blackmail wasn’t enough for your sick games. You had to terrify me too. Plus all that other crazy crap!”
I grab her wrists, stilling her. This doesn’t sound like shock talking. “What other crazy crap?”
She spits out each word like poison. “A decapitated bird on my steps. The rose on my pillow. You stole my pen, then gave it back, then broke it and left it on my desk. What’s up with that? The email today about lying.”
“That wasn’t me. The bird or your nice pen.” I’ve been her constant shadow since I got here. When would someone have had the chance…?
I returned her red fountain pen, safe and sound, on Saturday.
On Sunday night, I assumed she found a mouse on her doorstep, but it must’ve been the bird.
Someone’s stalking her. Someone who’s not me.
She jerks free and rubs her wrists while narrowing her eyes. “Of course it was you. Who else could it be?”
“I don’t know.” Though I can give a damn good guess.
“Oh, great. There are more of you? Who?”
The mattress squeaks when she sags back onto the bed. She pulls her legs up, folding in on herself.
Gio Falcone.
The incidents have his M.O. all over them. Gio loves this kind of psychological bullshit. To create fear and havoc with big messy displays, isolate the target, make them distrust everyone, then swoop in and play hero.
For him, it’s almost foreplay.
Rage claws my lungs. We should’ve killed him when we had the chance. I want to hunt the manipulative bastard down and leave him somewhere bleeding and toothless, but I can’t. Not yet.
I peel off my jacket and toss it over the only chair. “Enemies.” Grabbing one of my bags, I dig around for the candle I always travel with. “My enemies. Which makes them yours. Because they won’t stop.”
She looks up, her blue eyes lucid as they meet mine. “Your enemies?”
I nod as I rummage for a lighter. “You have no idea of the world you’re in now. The only way you stay safe is with me.”
“You put me in this world! Just leave me alone, and I’ll be fine.”
“I didn’t put you here. Whoever sent that book to the library did.”
Scoffing, she shakes her head like she’s trying to unhear my words. “I know your world. I’ve seen it before. There’s no safety there. You’re a monster. You can’t protect anyone.”
I’ve protected hundreds of people over the years, after failing the one girl who mattered the most…my sister. My last rescue involved Kolya’s girlfriend, Chloe, who I volunteered to help while joking around about my love for women. “One save per damsel. That’s my rule.”
Paige’s declaration hits me dead center, in the hole in my chest where guilt rots me away. Of all the voices that ever mattered, none mattered as much as Alina’s.
Ice fills my veins, choking out that old familiar pain. The mask slips, revealing the cold, expressionless face that stares back at me from the mirror every morning. The only time I’m ever the real me. Where no one can see.
That’s what I show Paige, the emptiness left behind after I scooped out the decay. I swore to never feel that pain again.
Her face shifts, the rage carving out space for unease. She chews her bottom lip, her eyes wide. Maybe she regrets the venom, but she doesn’t retract her statement. Though she does start scooting back, crablike, attempting to put distance between us.
Not happening.
I crawl onto the sagging bed, crowding her until she can’t move.
Her back hits the greasy headboard.
I plant a hand on either side, trapping her in the narrow triangle of my arms.
We’re inches apart. Paige peers at me, her pupils blown, her lips parted on a quick, uneven inhale.
She’s not just afraid. She’s alive.
I’ve seen this so often, coaxed life into so many people. This time is different, though. I examine her face, studying the tremor in her breath.
I could have her, right here. Could rip away every last scrap of control and force her to surrender.
Her flushed cheeks and unsteady breaths indicate she wants that. Needs to be claimed, coerced, ruined, so she can pretend she bears no fault. If I nudge her over the edge, she can blame me.
Her head tips back, exposing her throat. She fists her hands in the grimy blanket, like a Victorian woman clutching her pearls.
My mouth hovers just above hers. “You want me to take it out of your hands so you don’t have to choose. You think if I tell you what to do and you like it, if I’m the monster and you’re the victim, that still means you’re innocent?”
She shudders, red creeping up her neck. Paige arches toward me, her body practically begging for me.
I don’t touch her. That would be too nice. “You don’t get to hide behind me, Paige. Not tonight.”
I shove off from the headboard and saunter away.
Paige can enjoy the cold sheets. Maybe that’ll help wake her up to who she really is.
I drag the chair over, plant myself in it, and watch her rebuild herself, one shaky breath at a time.