35. Riley
Logan’s voiceis smooth and even as he speaks, explaining in precise and exacting detail how we’re going to get Chloe back and fuck Austin McKenna over.
I listen with rapt attention, my gaze glued to his face as I try to follow everything he’s saying.
I can barely believe it. After the shit show that went down after I saw her at the club last night, I honestly didn’t know how we’d get Chloe away from her captors, or if we ever actually would. But now, less than twenty-four hours later, there’s a full-blown plan to do exactly that.
Logan’s plan.
I bite my lower lip, trying not to smile. I’m not sure he knew how to handle me thanking him, but I really am so fucking grateful that the Reapers have someone like him on their side—and that I do too, for the moment. His intensity can be terrifying and overwhelming, but the way he’s so focused and thorough is also reassuring, in a way. It’s part of what’s always drawn me to him.
Logan pulls out a tablet, pointing to blue prints and grid-like maps on it as he walks us through things. Then he opens a still shot of what looks like the interior of a dimly lit warehouse.
“This feed is thirteen days old,” he says with a slight grimace that I’m guessing has to do with not having totally up-to-date information. “But I haven’t been able to find any evidence of current activity.”
“The Crimson Crows used to hold that area,” Dante says, nodding. “Not sure who ownership passed to, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s only maintained as a front. We bringing in support?”
Maddoc’s lips press into a grim line. “No,” he says at the same time as Logan.
“West Point needs to think Capside fucked them over,” Logan adds. “The fewer bodies in play, the lower the chance of either gang discovering our involvement.”
“Capside is gonna know someone was involved.”
“Yes.” Logan’s smile is malicious and so fucking terrifying that I’m ashamed of how much I like it. “And since McKenna will be sending in some insurance with the girl—”
“What? I blurt. “With Chloe? Insurance? What does that mean?”
“Enforcers,” Maddoc says calmly. “West Point gang members to make sure she does what she’s there for.”
“Enforcers that we’ll take out,” Logan says, “with the Glocks Capside favors.”
I lean forward, trying to absorb every detail of the plan as Logan goes into some technical shit about which equipment, by which he mostly means guns, that they’ll bring with them. Dante will be using one kind of ammunition favored by the drug dealing gang, and Logan will be loaded up with whatever West Side typically uses, so that if everything goes as planned, it will look like they were the only two gangs involved.
“Riley will stay on the ground floor,” Logan says, tapping the screen. “She’s left-handed, so if it’s clear, we’ll keep our approach to this section of the warehouse so that she can maintain good visibility with the most likely drop site.”
I blink, taken aback that Logan has paid enough attention to me to know which hand is my dominant one. But before I can process how I feel about that, Maddoc’s voice draws me back to the conversation.
“She won’t be armed,” he says flatly.
“She won’t need to be,” Logan says, as if he’s already considered this. “We’ll be providing cover.”
That’s fine with me. I’ve never handled a gun and would be more scared of accidentally shooting my sister than doing anything useful if they tried to give me one.
Once Logan is done going over everything, Maddoc nods, looking satisfied. “Sounds like you’ve covered all our bases, and then some.”
Logan goes still, his shoulders tensing. “Do you see any flaws in the planning?”
“Pretty sure you don’t do flaws, Logan.” Dante laughs, shaking his head.
“There are always variables that can’t be fully predicted.”
“And yet you nail ’em anyway,” Dante says with a grin. “Remember how smooth that shit with Wheeler went down a couple years ago? You’re a fucking genius. Nah, better than that. Whatever’s a step up from genius.”
Logan opens his mouth like he’s going to deny it or argue or something, but Maddoc speaks first.
“Logan.”
The blond man’s eyes jerk over to meet Maddoc’s, and Maddoc smiles.
“You did good. We’re going to be walking into a clusterfuck waiting to happen, but we’re gonna walk right back out of it unfucked and ahead of the game… because of you. There’s no one else I’d trust with this shit. Ever.”
Logan drops his eyes at the praise, but not before I see a slight flush rise up on his cheeks.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him blush, and it makes him look more human than he ever has before. Almost shy.
When our impromptu kitchen meeting breaks up, I can’t stop my gaze from lingering on Logan as he and his brothers consult about some small details of the preparation. My mom always told Chloe and me to pay attention to a person’s actions more than their words, and despite the coldness Logan has shown toward me sometimes, he’s also gone above and beyond to give this rescue mission the best chance of success.
And even if he didn’t do it just for me, it still means a hell of a lot to me.
As the three men get down to the business of preparing for the mission, I grab some food and head upstairs.
The rest of the day passes at a fucking snail’s crawl. I can hear the three of them moving around the house, the muffled sounds of their voices occasionally and even some laughter. But my help isn’t needed with this part, and I don’t want to risk getting in their way or distracting them and messing things up, so I spend the hours wearing a path between my window and the bedroom door, pacing and worrying. Thinking about the dozens of ways this could all go to hell, and praying with everything in me that it won’t.
At around seven o’clock, I’m staring out the window into the back yard when the bedroom door opens.
“Riley?”
The deep voice behind me makes me jump, and I whirl away from the darkened window to face the door.
Dante raises his eyebrows, grinning as he saunters into the room toward me with a rugged-looking duffel in his hand. “Almost time.”
“Good,” I say fervently. Any more waiting, and I might’ve gone out of my mind.
“Got you something,” he murmurs when he reaches me, tucking some of my hair behind my ear and then letting his fingers linger on my cheek.
“A present?” I tease him, my whole body relaxing when he chuckles.
“Gift wrapped and everything,” he says, handing the duffle over.
I unzip it, pulling out some dark clothes and shit that looks like it was lifted from a S.W.A.T. team.
“You’ve got a kink for dressing me, don’t you?”
He smirks, a flash of heat glinting in his green eyes. “Pretty sure my kink is undressing you, princess.”
He’s right about that, and I can’t really complain about it. My cheeks warm a bit as I hold up a heavy vest that feels like it weighs twice as much as I do.
“Do I really have to wear this?” I ask, frowning.
Dante’s smile evaporates, his face turning serious. “I’d like you to, yeah. Gonna get hot in there, even if shit goes exactly as planned. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”
“Chloe won’t be prepared,” I whisper, my heart suddenly clenching.
He nods, holding my gaze. “All the more reason for us to be, right?”
“Yeah,” I agree with a shuddering breath, squeezing my eyes closed as I try not to picture how wrong this might go. What it means that he brought me a vest like this… and what it could mean for Chloe if she’s not wearing one.
“Hey.”
I open my eyes when Dante tips up my chin, his brilliant green eyes finding mine. “It’s gonna be all right.”
My chest goes tight. I want that to be true so badly that I can taste it. But…
“You don’t know that,” I say, my voice quiet and hoarse.
“Sure I do,” Dante replies with so much easy confidence that I almost believe him. “We’re gonna get Chloe out, and it’s all gonna work just like we planned. Logan is a great tactician. I wasn’t kidding about that genius shit. It’s like his superpower. And when it comes to things like this? Trust me, he’s dotted every fucking ‘i’ and crossed every ’t’. If he says this is the best plan, then it is.”
That invisible fist gripping my heart loosens, and I nod, blowing out a ragged breath. “Okay.”
Dante smiles. “Need help getting dressed?”
I laugh. “Fuck off.”
“How about undressed?” he asks, sliding his hands down my sides and toying with the hem of my shirt.
“I think I’ve got it,” I murmur as he slips his fingers under the fabric to caress my skin, sending a delicious shiver through me that breaks up the icy chunks of worry clogging my veins, shaking them loose.
“’Course you do,” he murmurs, tugging me closer, his gaze glued to my lips.
Then he kisses me.
It’s less hungry and all-consuming than other kisses we’ve shared, but it hits me harder because of that. Because this isn’t a kiss that’s building toward something, or a kiss that’s part of foreplay. It’s a kiss to express something that words can’t quite encapsulate, and I cling to his broad shoulders for a moment as I melt against him, savoring the feeling of his firm lips against mine.
The kiss ends before I’m ready for it to, and I lift my fingers to my lips as Dante gives me one last look, then turns and leaves.
Shaking my head as if I’m snapping out of a daze, I shift my attention to the stuff he brought up for me. The clothes are all black and perfectly fitted, molding to my body when I slip them on, and I quickly switch out my nose ring to the glittering black skull I wore when I first came here.
“Pissed off and ready to do something about it,” I whisper to my reflection in the mirror on the wall, quoting Chloe.
As my reflection stares back at me, I realize that even though I washed up as thoroughly as I could after painting with Dante last night, tiny flecks of color are still trapped around my fingernails and in the creases between my fingers. There are little splotches of blood red and deep blue, as well as the vibrant green of Dante’s eyes, and the exact shade of purple as my hair.
Biting my lip, I run one fingertip over the small bits of paint on my other hand, unable to stop myself from remembering how they got there.
I can still feel the slickness of the paint on my bare hands, and the weight that lifted off me when I took all the shit in my head and put it on the canvas instead. I can hear Dante’s deep voice, talking to me and making me laugh.
Seeing me.
Gettingme.
Giving me things I didn’t even know I needed.
“Fuck,” I sigh, shaking my head and turning away from the mirror. I’ve made it through my time with the Reapers more physically unharmed than I expected to… but my heart is taking a damn beating.
I leave the room and start to make my way downstairs, curling my hands into fists as if hiding the paint on my fingernails will make the memories of last night go away.
It doesn’t help.
It’s like Dante marked me somewhere deeper—and unlike the paint on my hands, which will eventually wash away, I can’t help thinking that the marks he left beneath my skin aren’t going to vanish when this is all over.
That those are permanent.