Chapter 17
Seventeen
Thorn
River falls asleep against me during the movie again.
It feels a bit like tradition now.
One I’d give anything to keep building.
Which is why, even though my phone has been buzzing with texts and my inbox filling with emails, I don’t move for a long time.
I like her here, tucked tightly into my side.
A week ago, she—understandably—wouldn’t have let me anywhere near here.
Tonight, she’s pressed against me, trusting me to hold her while she sleeps.
And my stomach is overflowing with her delicious food.
Pretty fucking perfect.
She’s prettying fucking perfect.
So, what right do you have to touch her?
“Fuck you,” I whisper to that voice in my head.
“Meow?”
I grit my teeth together, exhale slow and steady. “It’s all good, cat,” I say softly, scratching Violet behind her ears.
“Meow,” she replies, settling her head back down on her paws, her eyes sliding closed.
I stare at the movie—this one filled with magic and villains and love and adventure—then down at the book River is clutching to her chest, even in sleep, and smile.
One minute she was talking passionately about why morally gray heroes are obviously the best (and are obviously in love with the assassin trying to take them down), and the next her eyes were drifting to the TV, quoting the next line before the character could.
Too see this version of River up close…well, it’s pretty fucking great.
Not shy and reserved.
Not combative and distant.
But soft and warm and sweet and funny and—
Mine.
Alarm bells blare, but before I can really get myself worked up, she shifts and I catch the book before it can drop to the floor.
Then I find myself reading the blurb on the back, opening the cover and tracing my fingers over the pen and ink map printed inside.
And then, somehow, I find myself turning to the first page.
Reading the first chapter.
Then the next.
And the next as River slumps down, resting her head on my thighs, curling her knees up to her chest.
Violet makes a quiet protest then curls up beside her.
My heart thuds hard against my ribcage, and my throat goes tight, emotions boiling up.
This is a dangerous thing.
Because I’ve wanted a moment exactly like this for longer than I can remember.
Because I’d do anything to keep it.
Because I know—fucking know—no matter how hard I fight, I’ll lose her anyway.
Maybe that certainty is why I stay where I am, why I keep still even as my feet go asleep, why I continue to read long into the night, well after the movie finishes playing and my inbox continues to overflow.
My phone vibrates against the side table, startling me out of the story River likes so much.
(And now I understand exactly why that’s the case).
Carefully, I snag it, see a message from Pascal.
I glance at the time—1:12 a.m.
Well, that can be nothing good.
River shifts slightly, her brows pulling together faintly even in sleep. I slide one hand gently up and down her back, murmur. “It’s okay, little hen.”
Her expression smooths. My obsession grows.
I shift, carefully sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, and stand. Her eyes flutter open, staring drowsily at me.
“Bedtime,” I say softly.
“Sleepy,” she mutters.
My mouth hitches up. “Then let’s get you into bed.”
She nods lazily, burrows deeper into my chest while I carry her down the hallway. “You know,” she murmurs, “if you keep carrying me places, eventually I’m going to stop pretending I can walk.”
I chuckle. “That’s okay, little hen.”
Sleepy blue eyes on mine. “Why?”
“Because I like holding you.” Because I’d carry you until my legs gave out.
“Good.” She smiles. Then her lids slide closed. “Because I like it too.”
Violet pads alongside us as I carry River into the guest bedroom, as I lower her carefully onto the mattress and tuck the blankets around her. Once she’s fully covered, my little cat jumps up and curls into River’s side.
Shaking my head, my heart feeling oddly vulnerable, I start to straighten—
River’s fingers wrap around mine. “Will you stay?”
Always.
God, I want to promise I’ll always stay.
Instead, I brush a strand of hair back from her face and say, “I need to take this call.”
“Then you’ll come back?”
Christ. She’s killing me.
But I just gently slip her hand free, lift it to my mouth, and kiss her palm. “Then I’ll come back,” I promise.
Her expression softens, her eyes slide closed. “Don’t work too hard.” A yawn. “And don’t stay up too late.”
Another lance of emotion though my middle. “I won’t,” I rasp.
I step out into the hall, snag my phone, and call Pascal. “What’s happened?”
He exhales roughly. “Attie’s here with an update.”
Damn. The FBI is involved. Which means this is bad.
I turn toward the windows, stare out at the dark city and focus.
“Ats,” Attie automatically corrects (she hates the nickname Attie, but it’s stuck no matter how hard she fights it). “We had movement tonight.”
My instincts prickle. “Sergio?”
“No. It was Angela who showed up on surveillance.”
I freeze.
“And she dropped something.”
“By accident or on purpose?”
Attie snorts. “What do you think?”
“I think Angela doesn’t do anything without careful calculation.” Or at least not the Angela who’s been the mastermind behind making all our lives miserable.
“I’m inclined to agree with you.” Rustling, as though Attie is reviewing her notes.
“She left a drive behind, and we’ve recovered internal Lyon communications, records of financial transfer, surveillance logs.
” A beat. “Along with a long list of names never previously associated with the Lyons before.”
I lean one hand against the glass and swear.
“And you’re wondering why I’m on that list,” I rasp.
Silence.
Then, “No, Thorn,” she says quietly. “I know exactly why you’re on the list.”
My pulse starts racing.
“Same as I know the man you are now.”
“I—”
“And anyway,” she says, neatly cutting me off, “we’re not here to talk about your past. We’re here to learn about Angela’s.”
I straighten. “What?”
“Her father was in deep,” Pascal says. “And she left a note with a file detailing precisely how deep.”
I close my eyes as pieces slot into place. “Does Jean-Michel know?”
“I’ll tell him in the morning,” Pascal mutters. “Let him and Tiff get their sleep.”
That’s probably for the best. There’s no point in waking him up just to tell him that his ex-wife may be a complete and total bitch…but that she likely got mixed up with the Lyons through no real fault of her own.
Then again, she stayed around the family.
But I would have to—if not for Pascal helping to get me out.
The Lyons don’t allow people to slip quietly away. Especially not those they have power over—and a woman whose father was in deep, who was married to a successful businessman with a young daughter, would have been precisely the type of person they would love to exploit.
“What does Angela want?” I ask quietly.
“Chrissy safe. Jean-Michel safe.” Attie pauses. “And probably a way out.”
“Fuck.”
“Precisely,” Attie mutters. “Who knows if any of it is real, or if it’s another angle she’s trying to exploit.” A sigh. “But we’re going to run this lead down to the end anyway.”
Of course she is.
Because it may be the only way out of this shit, the only way to take down the Lyons once and for all.
We talk for another few minutes, discussing the files and Angela’s motivations and what our next steps could be.
But none of us bring up the truth.
That if it is true, Angela finding a way to extract herself from the criminals she’s lived amongst the last decades won’t be easy.
Hell, it’ll likely be impossible.