Chapter 10 Luka
LUKA
The emissary drinks my vodka like it belongs to him.
He sits in the upstairs lounge, acting as if distance makes him safe, an easy smile curving a mouth made for lies.
The air around him carries the dry bite of Las Vegas, desert dust, and hotel AC mixed with cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and a trace of jet fuel from the airport.
Misha is on my right, his forearms braced on his knees, and his attention fixed with the patience of a sniper.
His stillness is the dangerous kind, the barely restrained violence of a man who knows when to strike and how to make it permanent.
Our men stand behind the emissary and his enforcer, a silent formation of suits and weapons.
Vega sits at my feet, upright and alert, ears pricked, eyes steady on the stranger.
He does not blink or move. The message is simple.
“I represent old acquaintances,” the emissary begins, his voice warm enough to soften granite. “From the west. People who extended hospitality to a man named Ray Bellamy some years back.”
Misha's jaw works once. “Hospitality,” he repeats flatly.
The emissary continues as if he heard nothing. “Ray accepted generous protection and a large sum of cash. Then he departed in a hurry with property that did not belong to him. He left questions behind and a hole in the books.”
“That's your problem,” I tell him. The words come out low, tempered by the fury I have been nursing since the moment this man walked through my door. “Your people are the same ones that harbored him after he betrayed my family.”
“Our problem becomes everyone's problem when he sends his troubles into your mountains.” The emissary folds his hands.
His cufflinks wink under the chandelier light, tasteful and smug, the showy accessories of a man who thinks gold buys respect.
“We hear there is a woman here. Sage Bellamy. We wonder how she fits.”
My pulse stays even, although the sound of her name in his mouth makes me want to tear his tongue out through his throat. “You wonder too much.”
He keeps smiling, but the expression never reaches his eyes.
“We have reason to believe she is related to Ray. A daughter or niece, perhaps. His blood. And if blood ties exist, she might hold access to accounts he hid before he vanished. Names. Keys. Safety deposit numbers. Family habits are hard to break.”
Misha leans forward. “Family habits are not your concern.”
The emissary slides a card across the table. It has a blank face, but a number is hidden in the stock, almost visible if the light is tilted. “We want the money, not trouble. If Sage Bellamy is connected, and if she cooperates, we can avoid bad weather between our families.”
I let the silence stretch. In it, I see Sage at the café the day we met, her chin lifted, blue eyes daring me to mind my own business while every instinct I had refused.
I think of the messages she sent and the way she flinched when I showed her she’d already given me what she meant to hide.
I remember the night I told her I suspected the truth and watched shock twist into fury and fear in a single breath.
The memory burns through my restraint. The rational part of me knows this man is just a messenger, but the irrational part that has claimed her as mine wants to paint the walls with him.
“You come into my house,” I hiss, leaning forward until the space between us shrinks to nothing, “and ask questions about a woman under my roof. I should cut your tongue out for just speaking her name.”
“We ask because we prefer civilized resolutions.”
“You prefer shortcuts,” Misha interjects, his anger evident in his eyes.
The emissary's smile thins. “Our patience is not unlimited. Our investors do not enjoy missing funds. If the girl is a way to repair what was taken, we will collect what is owed.”
Vega's ears tilt forward slightly. I don’t move. The men behind the emissary shift their balance in unison. They are well-trained enough to appear at ease.
“You will not approach her,” I tell him.
My voice drops to the register that usually precedes bloodshed.
“You will not speak her name outside this hall.
You will return to your city and inform the men who sent you that if they want their money, they can dig it from Ray Bellamy's grave. If they need directions, I will carve them into your skin.”
The emissary studies me, hunting for a bluff. He does not find it. His smile fades by degrees until only the calculation remains. He dips his head with a courtesy that belongs to a different century. “We will be in touch.”
“No,” I correct him. “You will not. You will leave by the long drive. There will be a car behind you at a polite distance. If you test my patience, you will learn how impolite I can be.”
We stand at the same time. Chairs scrape against hardwood. Vega remains seated at my feet, still and taut, the thin tremor in his muscles visible to anyone who understands the language of a trained dog on the edge of action.
The emissary walks out, trying to keep his eyes front. He fails. The quick glance over his shoulder snags on the cameras, my men, and on Vega sitting at my feet. He keeps moving, burying the slip beneath a practiced stride that never quite passes for ease.
Misha murmurs under his breath. I nod without hearing specifics, already turning toward the stairwell. I should go to my office and order a sweep of the accounts we flagged under Bellamy decades ago. Instead, I see her.
Sage stands half-hidden at the turn of the stairwell, her fingers white on the rail. She’s too close to the lounge. Too close to men who sell information and buy flesh. Her blue eyes are bright, her jaw sets like a dare. One step nearer and the emissary would have seen her. Perhaps he already did.
Anger rises like lava forced up a volcano’s throat, because I can see the future she refuses to face: a hand sealing her mouth, a bag yanked over her head, a van that reeks of oil and fear.
I can see her broken and bleeding in some warehouse while men like the emissary negotiate her worth in dollars and threats.
“Sage,” I call out, and the sound of her name is not gentle. Vega turns his head. Misha tracks where my attention falls and then looks away, because he is loyal enough to let me handle what belongs to me.
She should run, but she doesn’t. She stares at me like I am the one who has crossed a line. She does not drop her gaze.
“Do you have a death wish, printsessa?” I growl.
“Your voices carry.”
The answer is calm, but her pulse beats fast at her throat. I cover the distance in three strides and slam my palm to the wall beside her face. Her scent rises light and maddening, getting under my skin and refusing to leave. My temple steadies. The rest of me does not.
“You ignore my rules at your own risk.” I lean in until our mouths share air, and I can feel the warmth of her breath against my lips.
The blue in her eyes hardens. “The only thing I wish is for you to stop pretending you’re protecting me when all you’re doing is imprisoning me.”
I told her yesterday that I suspected what she is to Ray. I told her because lies in the bloodline rot the foundation. Hearing the word imprison from her mouth still feels like a blunt strike to the ribs.
“I know what your name invites.” My voice is quiet and close. “I know who will come for it.”
“I’m not responsible for a man I have never met.”
“His enemies do not care.”
Her lips part, the words trapped behind pride. She lifts her chin stubbornly. The line of her neck tightens, and a tremor moves under her skin. It pulls at the tight places inside my chest until they begin to give.
My hand finds her wrist. Her bones are fragile against my palm, delicate in a way that makes me want to break things to keep her safe.
“Let me go,” she demands sharply. “You don’t own me.”
I do not argue. I pull her from the stairwell, down the short hall, and into my room. Vega slips in ahead and then pivots and sits near the wardrobe, alert, head high, and eyes on the door. He decides he is not part of this, but he will guard the perimeter.
I shut the door. The cabin falls to a hush beyond it.
She tears her wrist from my grip and sinks to the edge of the bed, gripping the quilt. “You can’t keep me in this room.”
“You cannot stand outside my meeting and show your face to men who break fingers for sport.”
“I heard what he wanted.” She swallows, color rising in her face. “He wants money. He thinks I know where it is.” Her voice drops. “I don’t.”
“I believe you.” The admission surprises both of us.
She stares, trying to decide if trust is a trap. Her eyes search my face for the lie, the angle, or the manipulation she expects from men like me. “Then let me go. Let me go home.”
“You will not be able to leave without me.”
“I don’t want you.”
Her voice is brave, but her body betrays her. Her breathing changes, deeper now and faster. Her fingers loosen on the quilt and curl again, as if holding still is harder than giving in.
“Tell me to leave,” I murmur, leaning in until my chest hovers inches from hers.
She hesitates for a heartbeat. “No,” she breathes.
The single word sets a fuse, and the burn runs through both of us. I lift her chin with my thumb, find the hollow beneath her cheekbone, and feel the flutter there. She should push me away, but she doesn’t. Her mouth opens as if to argue. I take the argument from her tongue.
The first kiss wipes the emissary’s words from my mind.
She tastes like peppermint and anger, sweet and sharp all at once.
Her mouth yields, resists, and yields again.
I brace one hand on the mattress beside her hip to save us from exactly how far I want to go in a single breath, but my restraint thins when she makes a sound that turns heat into need.
She parts her knees a fraction. My name leaves her lips in a whisper that sounds like surrender wrapped in defiance.