Thirty-Four Ella
THIRTY-FOUR
Ella
Justice and Wynd flank me as we slip through the back door into Malice Media’s main reception area in the middle of the city.
I already miss the house by the ocean, but we’ll stay there again tonight.
The hinges click shut behind us, cutting off the hallway’s shadows, and a rush of cool air greets my skin.
The lobby spreads wide, polished and calm, not a single mark of the bombing left.
Marble tiles shine beneath recessed lights, pale cream streaked with gray veins.
The space smells faintly of pine polish and new fabric, covering any trace of smoke or ash that might have lingered.
Clusters of couches stretch across the room, angled toward sleek black tables.
The arrangement feels calculated for more business than comfort.
Every piece carries garnet accents and obsidian trim—thick bases on lamps, carved edges along the tables, inlays along the chair legs.
Dark stone gleams against pale walls, pulling the eye and grounding the luxury.
I tug at the hem of my new dress, a soft blue that skims my knees.
The fabric moves lightly with each step, brushing against my thighs.
My new citrine necklace glitters warm yellow at my throat, catching flashes from the overhead lights.
It matches the bracelet that fits snug against my wrist, the gems alive with fire whenever my hand shifts.
Their brightness cuts through the obsidian around us, a burst of color against all the shadow.
Presents from Justice. I’ve never been pampered by a man before and am surprised by how much I like it. Love the jewels, really.
I bite back a sneeze. Am I catching something or what? Sleep would be nice.
Justice doesn’t slow. His long stride keeps us moving, the black fabric of his jacket stretching over shoulders built for command.
Wynd matches his pace on my other side, every step a silent echo, his gaze sweeping corners and doorways.
Their presence forms a wall, one I didn’t ask for but can’t shake off, solid enough that each breath feels steadier.
We cross half the lobby before Wesley pushes up from a couch tucked in the far corner.
The movement draws every guard’s attention for a split second.
He’s tall, shoulders broad despite the sling binding one arm tight to his chest. The bruises across his cheekbone and jaw stand out under the lights, purple and green cutting against tanned skin.
His other hand stays loose at his side, steady and in control.
Even injured, he carries himself with a confidence I admire.
I aim a look at my man that says more than words, and Justice’s mouth twitches in response, the only crack in his carved expression. The warmth in his eyes is quick, quiet, gone before anyone else notices.
“Wesley, how are you?” My voice lifts, clear enough to roll across the marble and bounce back faintly.
“I’m fine. I’d like to speak with you alone.” His words stay even, steady, though he closes the space between us with careful steps.
Justice and Wynd stiffen. Their shoulders square, weight settling in unison, both ready to shut him down before he gets close.
“No.” Justice’s tone is final.
Enough of this. “Would you stop?” Frustration threads through my voice. The men stationed at every corner stand locked in place, their gazes flicking between us, tension coiled. The whole room feels wound tight, waiting for the next move. “Give me a break, would you?”
“No.” Justice’s answer is short, sharp, the word cutting as clean as his expression.
“Come on, Justice,” I murmur. “Let me just speak to Wesley for a minute.” I have to reassure the poor guy so he doesn’t get himself killed.
Justice’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t move.
The polished marble under his shoes gleams with reflections from the overhead lights, and the faint hum of the air system fills the silence.
He watches me longer than I expect before the tightness in his shoulders eases just a fraction.
Patience isn’t his natural state, but he’s edging toward it with me. I doubt anyone else ever sees that.
Two guys behind the wide reception counter shift, catching Justice’s eye. The counter is brushed steel with obsidian edges, and they stand behind it in matching dark suits, the kind that conceal weapons. One of them jerks his chin, a silent signal that they need Justice’s attention.
“Fine.” Justice steps closer to Wesley, a smile curving his mouth with no trace of humor. “You touch her, I’ll break both your hands. Got it?”
Wesley lifts his brows. “I don’t touch people unless they want it.”
“Good. Because she doesn’t.” Justice’s hand lands on me with a quick pat, sharp enough on my backside to make heat rise in my face. Then he turns, his long stride carrying him toward the guards. Wynd moves with him as a silent shadow at his side.
I watch them cross the lobby, their tall frames cutting through the expanse with lethal grace. Yeah, Justice will pay for that pat later. Maybe.
Wesley gestures, and I walk with him to one of the sofas.
The leather cushions dip as I sit, the surface cool against my thighs.
Beyond the wide windows, rain streaks the glass in silver rivulets.
The storm outside blurs the city into gray lines and moving shadows.
The panes shimmer faintly, reinforced, maybe bulletproof.
“I have a gun in my boot.” Wesley leans closer. His powder-blue three-piece suit strains against the sling at his shoulder. “Just say the word.”
“What word?” I fight a nervous laugh. “We’re surrounded by at least ten guns right now, Wesley. We wouldn’t make it.”
“For you, I’d try.” His gaze holds mine, smart and earnest, so open I feel guilty.
I draw in a slow breath, the scent of rain and leather wrapping the moment. “I like you a lot.”
“I like you a lot too.” He leans forward another inch but doesn’t close the space. Smart man.
“But just as a friend,” I add, letting the words settle. “We weren’t going anywhere. We share code. We share computers. That’s it.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m plenty of girls’ dream guy.
I know that. But I want you.” His gaze flicks over me, not lingering where it shouldn’t.
“You’re gorgeous, yes. But even if you weren’t, your brain …
no one talks tunneling or network paths with me the way you do. Don’t you see how perfect that is?”
I glance across the lobby. Justice stands in profile, black suit cutting sharp against the pale marble. His attention stays on the guards, but I know he’s tracking my every move.
Wesley follows my gaze, his face hardening. “You can’t have fallen for the mob boss. Have you?”
To put it mildly. The rain outside beats harder, blurring the view beyond the glass. “I have.” The truth is simple. “I’m sorry, Wesley. I hope we can still be friends.”
His wince confirms that my appeasement falls flat. “I think you’ve been brainwashed and this is Stockholm Syndrome.” His tone sharpens as he pushes to his feet.
I rise too, the leather seat creaking. “You don’t have to insult me. You just complimented my brain. I know what I’m doing. Thank you for your friendship, and I really do hope you find the right person for you.”
He towers over me when we’re both standing, his suit pulling across his shoulders. Justice dwarfs him in presence, but Wesley’s height is undeniable.
“I can’t let you give up your life like this.” His hand flexes at his side.
“I’m not giving up anything,” I murmur. “Thank you, but I think it’s time we moved on.”
A piercing shriek rips through the lobby. The sound bounces off the marble walls, shrill enough to make my pulse spike. I jolt, and Wesley spins fast, eyes wide.
Justice and Wynd are already moving, their bodies cutting a path toward me with lethal speed. Another scream follows, high-pitched, ragged, words spilling in rapid Spanish. My ears catch the rhythm but not the meaning.
We move together toward the noise at the back of the lobby and reach the hallway. Justice plants himself in front of me, his broad back a wall. “Stay here.”
“Why?” I ask, moving with him anyway.
The corridor narrows, lined with open doors. Cleaning supplies sit in plastic bins, mops leaning against tiled walls. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, cold against the shadows pooling along the floor.
A fifty-something woman wearing a pink maid’s outfit stumbles backward, hands trembling as she points, her voice breaking.
Wynd catches her by the arm, steadying her, and guides her toward the open lobby.
As we step closer, something shifts. A dead body slides forward from one of the closets, hitting the floor with a soft, sickening thud. Brown hair spills across the tile, strands catching the light. The air stills.
I stop short, the metallic tang of blood reaching me before my eyes take in the rest.
Justice’s chin lowers, his jaw set hard.
“Oh my God.” The words scrape out of me, barely audible. “That’s Sylveria Rendale.”
The hole through her head leaves no question as to her death. Her skin is pale, blood staining her temple and trailing along the floor. She is lifeless in a light blue silk suit, her one foot bare and the other wearing a red-bottomed navy blue heel. She will never move again.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing sharper with every second. The rising pitch cuts through the lobby, echoing off the marble walls until the sound feels like it’s inside my skull.
“Damn it.” Justice’s voice is pure grit. “We were set up.” His head snaps toward Wynd. “Take Ella. Get her out the back door and to my place by the ocean since it’s been cleared. Keep guards on the whole property, including Thorn’s place, until I get there. Got it?”
“Yes,” Wynd answers, already signaling the men stationed by the windows. Boots pound against the floor as bodies shift into formation, dark suits moving like pieces on a chessboard.
I can’t stop staring at Sylveria. Dead. On the floor. She’d hate being on the floor and missing one shoe. Just hate it. “Wait.” My voice comes out raw.