Chapter seventeen
Tilly
February 2024
Six weeks was all we had to prepare for our escape.
The time has been fraught with what-ifs and the risk of one of the few people we’ve trusted to help us ratting us out to my uncle instead.
If I said I wasn’t scared, I’d be lying.
In all honesty, it was terrifying lying in bed at night waiting for the door to open, praying that the men who controlled my existence hadn’t gotten wind of our plans and took me before I could leave.
Greyson told me we had to keep our distance. Damon allocated him a position in the field, basic security work at one of Hunter’s underground fight clubs. It kept him out of my uncle’s line of vision and made him less likely to pop into his thoughts as unfinished business.
“I need to stay under the radar,” he told me the last time we spoke a week ago in a stolen moment at the mansion. He had been here for a team meeting. “You need to go along with whatever they say as long as it’s not a risk to your safety. Damon assures me he is staying close.”
“How do we know we can trust him?”
“Because he isn’t a manipulator. If McKinney was going to hand us over, he would have done it by now.”
My confidence in our plan grew a little with his words, but so many men had let me down over the years I wasn’t so sure—men who were supposed to protect me.
“Trust me, Damon’s a good man with a family, and he understands complex love lives.”
“How complex?” I had cocked my head to the side and widened my eyes, trying to lure him into staying longer. He wasn’t biting. Greyson had a plan, and we stuck to it no matter how much I fluttered my eyelids.
“Complex enough that it will be a bedtime story once we are both away from here and safe. I need to go.” He’d leaned down, kissed me, then stalked off back in the direction he came from, and that was the last time I had seen him.
Communication since then had been sparse. He told me I would get a message in the days leading up to our extraction. There’s still been nothing, and I’m to be married in three days. I’m getting nervous.
Then there’s the added complication that I only just found out myself, one that can’t be swept under the rug or hidden by either of us.
That’s why, at this moment, I’m standing in the office of the gym my uncle uses to host illegal cage fighting.
Damon hadn’t been too pleased when I asked him to orchestrate this meeting, but after a bit of begging, he relented. I hope Greyson shows up.
Ten more minutes pass. Damon left me here thirty minutes ago.
I had told my family I had beauty appointments at my favorite salon in preparation for my big day.
To ensure no one suspected anything, I hired an actress to take my place.
Someone is being paid today to be pampered; at least she’ll be enjoying herself.
After another lap of the office, the door opens, and Damon appears again.
“Where is he?” I hiss, the red mist of not getting my way descending. “I need to speak to him.”
“He’s coming. I was checking on you.”
“Checking on me? Damon, I’ve no fucking idea what is going on. No one tells me jackshit, and I’m being forced to marry in three days.”
He steps inside and closes the door behind him. His expression remains calm, but he signals with his hand to keep my voice down. “Speaking like that will get us all killed,” he tells me, raising an eyebrow. “And after everything we’ve organized, it would be disappointing for you not to see it.”
“Like what?” I hold my arms out, completely exasperated with the lack of information and that what I am being told is fucking cryptic.
“I’ll let Greyson fill you in.”
“I’ll fucking fill him in, too,” I mutter, my emotions getting the better of me.
Damon gives me a curious look but doesn’t comment.
I would guess working with who he does, he keeps his mouth shut a lot unless it’s to his benefit.
We stand in an awkward silence for a few moments, then the man I’ve been waiting for walks in.
Damon turns and shakes his hand, then takes a brown envelope from him.
“Thanks. You were certainly worth the bet. How are you feeling after last night?”
Damon asks him, and Greyson responds with a scowl.
A silent sign to shut up. “You better tell her what you’ve been up to.”
My heart sinks. What he’s been up to sounds concerning.
Is there someone else? Or has our situation changed without me even being notified? What was in the envelope?
Damon leaves, and Greyson approaches me. His demeanor is uncertain. I watch him curiously, waiting for him to shatter all the hopes I’ve had building of escape.
“What is he talking about? What did you give him?”
I ask him, my tone wary. He reaches for my hands, linking our fingers and pulling me to him.
My arms wrap around his middle, and as I tighten my grip, he visibly winces.
He unravels us, steps back, and lifts the black T-shirt he’s wearing, turning to the side.
A huge purple bruise runs from his left side around to his back.
“This,” he says. “I was in a fight…”
“A fight! What happened? Where?”
“Here. Your uncle allowed the use of a chair, but he passed it to my opponent, and there was only one chair.” He takes my face in his hands and kisses me softly. “It’s okay, pretty girl. I won. The envelope was Damon’s winnings.”
“But you’re hurt.” My fingers skim over his pulverized body. “I don’t want you to be used as a dancing monkey to fight and win money for assholes. I don’t want this for us.”
My hand drops to my stomach at the word us, and his eyes follow the unusual movement.
I take a breath, knowing this is the moment I have to tell him what I only just found out myself, but doing so risks him not taking me with him.
He looks at me, and there is realization on his face before the words even leave my lips.
“You see, Greyson. Um, pulling out didn’t work. When we run, you’ll be rescuing two of us.”
***
Greyson
I stare at Tilly as her words crash around my brain cells—two of them. As soon as she dropped her hand to her flat stomach as we spoke, I knew, and I also had no doubt that the child was mine. The sense of calm I felt was surprising.
“We only had sex once,” I whisper, stunned.
“I’ve only ever had sex once. But I believe it only takes one time to make a baby.”
As if needing to prove to myself what she is saying is true, I lay my hand where the bud of our baby lies. Tilly’s focus never leaves my face. There’s a mixture of hope, distress, and outright fear swirling in her eyes. She expects me to run. I won’t.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“For what? For making me a father? I’m pretty sure I have some responsibility in the process, too.”
My second hand cups her cheek, and I kiss her.
It strikes me as odd that this newsflash hasn’t freaked me out; if anything, I feel something uncommon.
Happiness. The idea of her carrying my child makes me instantly fucking ecstatic.
“No, for putting you in this position. You wanted a life without complications, but here we are.”
“Tilly,” I say, still touching both her and our baby.
“A life without complications would be boring. What I seek is a life with light and joy, and from where I’m standing, if all goes to plan, that’s what we will fucking have.”
I take her mouth with mine, our kiss both needy and deep.
She pulls back, and I watch her suck in the air, catching her breath.
“What’s the plan?” she asks. She isn’t going to like my answer. Her patience is going to have to continue a while longer.
“The less you know, the better,” I tell her.
“But be ready to leave at any point—even in the final moment when you think I’ve let you down.”
Damon reenters the room. He signals that Hunter has arrived and she needs to leave.
“Trust me. I’m coming for you both.” Damon narrows his eyes; he obviously heard my comment.
“Is she good?” he asks. The open-ended question, as if she isn’t standing there, leaves my response up to me.
“They are good,” I emphasize the word, they. He looks between Tilly and myself, clearly grasping what I just said. “We’re all systems go.”
***
Tilly
The morning of my wedding has arrived, and I’ve heard nothing from Greyson or Damon. The bean growing in my belly is so small that I’m hardly convinced they are there. In a way, everything feels like a dream I’ve created to pretend that this isn’t fucking happening.
As I sit at my dressing table and curl my hair, the certainty of my upcoming nuptials draws closer.
There’s no excitement as there would typically be on a wedding day.
There are no enthusiastic mothers or bridesmaids to be seen; I’m the only one in my bedroom, with the white lace dress on a stand behind me.
I was told to be ready at eleven this morning.
It’s now ten o’clock. My time is running out.
A knock on my door signals someone's arrival.
It opens before I can give permission. All the locks were removed after the New Year fiasco, so privacy isn’t something I’ve had anyway.
A woman trots in, holding a large pink cardboard box.
She looks around her mid-twenties and is dressed head to toe in peach linen.
“Hello, I’m Emma. I have your flowers,” she trills, and I try to smile. Her eyes roam around the room, probably searching for someone who would look at least a little overjoyed by today. She won't find that here with me. She looks a little familiar, but I can’t place her.
“Thanks, just put them on the bed.” I wave toward the crumpled duvet I rolled out of an hour ago. “I’m sure they’re lovely,” I add, feeling like I need to say something positive. She must be the florist.
She places the box on the bed and then walks over to where I sit, looking in the mirror. The stranger stands behind me, puts her hands on my shoulders, and smiles broadly.
“Have a wonderful day. Be sure to read your card in the box once you have your dress on.” I blink at her confused. “I would say see you later, but that’s unlikely.” Before I can ask anymore or question the bizarre conversation, she turns around and skips out the door.
Moving to the bed, I collect the small white envelope nestled inside the pink buds of my bouquet.
The front is blank. It isn’t addressed to anyone.
I extract the card, decorated with pink roses similar to the real ones in front of me; as I flip it open, I see two simple words written in black ink. Be Ready.
I rip the card up and throw it in the trash can in the corner of my room. I’m always fucking ready.
***
Greyson
Damon insisted that this was the best way to get hold of Tilly and leave with the least notice. We have argued a lot about this in recent weeks as we planned my and Tilly’s escape.
“We need to wait until they think they’re home and dry,” Damon said. “Trust me.”
He was adamant that her wedding day was the day to run. She would be outside the mansion for a prolonged period of time. Both families would be distracted by the ongoing proceedings, and the men in power would be too busy peacocking to worry about the bride.
“You want to just let her get married?” I snapped.
“No, it won’t get that far. I also have intelligence that we may have company from the Russians that day. It could be a beneficial distraction.”
Without any other options, I had to trust him.
He’d helped me obtain fake passports and forged medical records so we could start a new life in Thailand.
He’d risked himself to aid our escape, not for money or status but to give us a chance to be together.
Now the day had arrived, I prayed my instincts were right and this wasn’t some elaborate setup.
That my ability to judge people wasn’t completely warped.
The wedding was arranged for midday in St. Roman’s Church.
All the guests were scheduled to arrive at eleven.
Damon had it on good authority that Russian henchmen were planning to crash the ceremony just as the bride arrived, throwing the whole place into chaos before she walked down the aisle.
I asked him how he had this information. He told me not to be so fucking nosey.
It's half past eleven when I head for the church. Peripheral security is my official role today. That means I’m on the outskirts, watching the passing events and being first in line for a bullet.
Swathes of guests arrive, flowing inside in insanely expensive outfits and hats.
It's a sea of color and sequins, each person wanting to upstage the other and, ultimately, the bride herself.
An announcement from a man inside tells us that all guests are in place and seated.
Now, all we have to do is wait. The plan is to either utilize the distraction of Russian interception or create one.
A motorbike sits around the corner, ready for me to chase the limo once the driver is told to drive on.
Twenty minutes later, the long black car appears in the street.
There hasn’t been a sniff of complication from inside the church.
I begin to panic that Damon’s intelligence has been wrong, or that this is indeed a setup to get Tilly here without me trying to take matters into my own hands.
The car stops, and Damon appears at the church's stairs; he glances at me, nods, then approaches the limo.
As he strides down the steps, he’s reaching for the door handle when there are screams of terror from inside the building.
He opens the rear door, shouts for the driver to drive on, slams it closed, then hits the car on the roof.
It speeds off in the direction I expected it to.
There’s a protocol for everything in our world, and the driver will head to a safe house.
Damon turns and salutes to me, and I run for the motorbike. He heads inside the church to deal with whatever catastrophe is unfolding. I got what I wanted, a distraction; now it’s up to me to follow through.
Slamming the helmet on, I jump onto the black bike and take off after my girl. Within minutes, the limo comes into view and turns into a side street; I go around to face it head-on as it stops. I know the place. No one is based here. It’s a small flat in the center of the city.
The driver offers Tilly his hand as she steps out of the rear door of the vehicle in full bridal attire.
He assures her everything will be alright.
She mumbles something to him, keeping his focus on her.
I approach, gun raised. Her eyes move to me, and she smiles.
She knows I am there for her, even though she can’t see my face.
The muzzle touches the man’s head, and he freezes, knowing exactly what the sensation is.
I’m sure anyone who works for Hunter Devane will have had a gun pointed at them at some point.
His hand moves, but before he can grab whatever he is reaching for, my knife lodges in his back.
He grunts, then falls away, collapsing onto the floor.
As he moans like a wounded pig, I take Tilly’s hand and pull her toward the bike.
“We need to go,” I say, tugging at her. “We have a plane to catch.”
I snap open the visor as I remove the helmet and place it on her head. Her eyes are wide and perfect, filled with nothing but excitement. This is happening. We’re leaving. I climb onto the bike, and she clambers on behind me. A strong Russian accent shouts as I lift my foot to start the engine.
“Cousin, did you think it would be that easy?” I look up, and a large blond man around thirty walks casually in our direction.
“Fuck,” Tilly whispers. “That’s Rodion.”