CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE #2
Lachlan’s typically cast-iron resolve is snapping like fine fibres giving way beneath brute force.
He’s going to kiss him because that’s what Jules wants, and Lachlan has never wanted anything more.
The age gap, the power imbalance, the blood on his hands and that small swipe he can still taste, none of it means anything faced with the raw reality of the truth he’s done everything possible to bury.
He’s attracted to Jules.
Likes him.
Loves him.
Wants him.
The last few months, he’s wanted him so much, and has buried it beneath concrete, steel and earth, but now it’s waking, rising, breaking free.
‘I’m… me?’
‘You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought…’ Jules’ free hand dips to caress Lachlan’s side. He goes rigid in an entirely different way. ‘Why are you wet?’
Oh.
Oh.
He’s bleeding to death.
Right.
Lachlan chuckles, eyes fluttering. ‘Oh shit, yeah.’
‘Are you bleeding?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Is this…?’ Jules pulls back his hand, gasping hard. ‘Oh my God.’
‘It’s OK, really.’
‘Did he do this to you?’
Lachlan pulls himself upright, reeling instantly at how lightheaded he is. Jules’ hand is red, the boy’s favourite colour, only rose red and blood red are different, Lachlan knows. ‘Fuck,’ he says calmly.
‘Who did this to you?’
A wave of dizziness rises up hard, won’t be denied.
‘C-can you call Blaire for me, sweetheart? Only Blaire.’
He’s fading, seeing colours and shapes, ocean water blue filled with vivid red clouds and pretty snakes whose scales gleam in the firelight.
‘Lachlan? Oh my God, Lachlan!’
‘Tell her… where… we are.’
?
The wounds heal. Blaire forgives him.
But Lachlan can’t forgive himself for what almost happened.
Jules is pretty much furious with Lachlan anyway, so the awkward renewal of cool distance between them works out fine. They don’t talk about it, and Jules hardly even looks at him in the weeks following his birthday.
November melts into December and Lachlan throws himself into work.
Blaire only asks once why Lachlan didn’t get the wounds seen to.
He tries his best to explain, but it sounds psychotic saying he didn’t want anyone else seeing them, asking how he got them, because then he’d have to describe the cold, procedural way Alistair Penhalyx penetrated him while telling him who he belonged to, and the fact that Lachlan, trained killer that he is, allowed it.
She looks so sad when she understands.
In early December, he meets with the three people Sorrenko offered and is surprised despite himself. They’re ideal for what he wants, the gaps he needs to fill, and the expertise required when fielding a replacement for Carrigan.
Of the three, Danya Yashin is, on paper at least, everything Lachlan could want in a second, which is why he’s taking all of it with a dump truck of salt. Sorrenko may be genuine when it comes to his sons, Lachlan doesn’t know enough to be sure, but he’s still Mikhail Sorrenko.
Lachlan meets with Yashin and the other two anyway.
The twenty-five-year-old corrects the use of his last name quickly.
‘Danya. I’d cut Yashin off if I could,’ the Russian says cheerfully.
He offers Lachlan his hand across the table as they stand to shake.
He’s built like a boxer with broad shoulders and thick forearms. He carries a kind of dense, easy strength that looks natural on him, not overworked.
Short, blonde curls with dark brown eyes.
He’s wearing an honest to God lilac crop top with board shorts and sandals.
‘Is good to meet you, Lachlan Tanner.’
‘And you.’ Danya’s file sits in front of Lachlan, who can’t help but ask, ‘You just fly in from somewhere nice?’
‘Oh this?’ Danya asks, looking down at himself. ‘I thought you’d want to check for ownership ink. I made it easy, see?’
Lachlan scans for visible tattoos, notes the absence of the ones that’d give him pause. ‘Could be on your ass for all I know,’ he mutters.
Danya grins cheekily. ‘Only thing on my ass is dimples and a cool scar.’
Lachlan doesn’t ask.
‘So, why do you think Sorrenko sent you to work for me?’
‘I think you need good people.’
‘And you’re good people?’
‘OK, I think you need people who are good at their jobs, and that’s us.’
‘Sorrenko bought your contract, is that right?’
‘Man like him can buy whatever he wants.’ Danya’s smile doesn’t dim, but a little of the cheekiness fades all the same. ‘You must know that by now.’
‘Money doesn’t buy loyalty.’
‘What does?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Loyalty cannot be bought. I know that much.’
‘Hm. Walk me through your service history.’
Danya gives him the unglossy version of the transcript, which Lachlan appreciates. It tallies perfectly, but that doesn’t mean much because Danya, whatever else he is, is clearly a professional.
Even so, Lachlan likes him right away.
But he’s also not stupid.
There’s doing someone a favour and then there’s gift-wrapping a big fuck-off wooden horse.
Lachlan takes all three of them on and keeps their assignments low-level, controlled and deliberately unimportant.
It’ll take roughly two weeks for him to know with certainty whether Danya and the other two, Nina Belova and Sergei Zaitsev, can be trusted.
In the meantime, it’s coming on Christmas.
?
Last year they didn’t do much to celebrate, but this year Lachlan encourages Mimi, Jules and Vasily to decorate however they like.
The East Wing is full of cloudy rainbows from the coloured fairy lights threaded along the ceilings and banisters, brightening the dark, polished wood.
Mimi hangs oversized paper stars from the upper walkways, some a little wonky because she made half of them herself, while Vasily wraps real pine garlands around the railings to bring the scent of outdoors inside.
A huge tree in the central hall is overloaded with ribbons, dried orange slices, brass bells, messy, colourful handmade ornaments and plush red velvet bows tied by Jules.
Blaire makes walnut and cinnamon decorations with Mimi, pretty dangling delights.
It feels like the first real Christmas of Lachlan’s whole life.
Lachlan finds himself grudgingly impressed by the three new additions. They’ve been thoroughly vetted, checked and monitored without trace of any discrepancy, but more than that, they adapt quickly to his way of doing things, his way of thinking.
He’d asked Sorrenko for people who were his, and that’s exactly how it feels.
Lachlan brings Belova and Zaitsev into full-time security and starts training Danya as his second, who he introduces to Mimi, Jules and Vasily after discussing it with Blaire. Danya shakes hands with all of them, including Mimi, who narrows her eyes at him, clearly suspicious.
‘You talk like she did,’ Mimi murmurs.
Danya cocks his head. ‘Vy imeyete v vidu vot tak, printsessa? Like that?’
Mimi nods. ‘Like that. Daddy killed her. She was a bad Morning Momma.’
Sometimes Lachlan thinks Mimi has forgotten Belkin entirely, and then she says something like this, and he’s reminded of the strange, stubborn nature of memory, especially in children.
She was three years old when she saw someone die.
‘Well, if I am bad,’ Danya says with a smile, ‘then he’ll kill me too.’
‘He will.’
Throughout the introductions, Jules is sullen and quiet, though politely civil when spoken to. Lachlan knows he has to talk to him about that night, but he can’t bring himself to.
He’s so ashamed for too many reasons.
Sadly, Christmas Day is, in fact, a high-risk day for attacks, so Lachlan can’t ease security by a single inch. He did spend a frankly stupid amount of money on gifts for everyone, though. He took his time choosing things that they’d actually love instead of expensive filler.
Nothing especially flashy, but meaningful.
Like the shoes with the gleaming silver buckles he got for Mimi. She’s been drawing them repeatedly on every portrait of herself. Those took hours to find because they had to be just as she imagined them.
Like the first edition Trixie Belden series he found for Vasily, who he knows loves those books despite putting his one worn copy inside a grand tome whenever he reads outside of his room.