“The hacking of the computer must be how Kirill learned we were coming,” Lucas says grimly, and I nod in agreement. I don’t know if my former trainer used Rudenkos’ apartment because it was the best hiding spot, or because he suspected I might return with Misha one day, but either way, he was well positioned to strike when we least expected it.
The guards were keeping watch for danger from the outside, but the enemy had been inside all along.
To my relief, Misha seems far less traumatized than his parents. I don’t know if it’s his UUR training or what he’s already lived through during Lucas’s attack on the black site, but my brother is recovering quickly in more ways than one. Far from being distraught and remorseful about his role in Kirill’s death, Misha seems proud that he got to participate in the takedown of the man who hurt me and nearly killed his parents.
“I’m glad I got to shoot the bastard,” he says fiercely when Lucas and I visit his bedside. “It’s the least he deserved.”
“You did well, kid,” Lucas says, patting his uninjured shoulder. “Your hands didn’t even shake when you shot off his arm.”
I wince at the graphic imagery, but Misha just nods, accepting the praise as his due. He and Lucas appear to be on the same wavelength now, as if fighting Kirill together brought them closer. I like that development, but it does disturb me to see my fourteen-year-old brother being so casual about a man’s gruesome death.
“And why should he be upset?” Lucas says when I mention my concern to him later that evening in our private hospital room. “He’s old enough to understand that you have to do what’s necessary if you want to survive and protect those you care about. The kid’s growing up, and whether you want to admit it or not, he’s not a delicate flower.”
“Neither is he a remorseless killer—or at least he shouldn’t be,” I retort, but Lucas just sits down on the edge of the bed and picks up my hand. His gaze is hard and shuttered, but his grip is gentle. He’s been this way, caring yet distant, ever since we got to this clinic, and no matter how much I try, I can’t figure out why he does nothing more than cuddle me at night.
The doctors cleared me for sex the day before yesterday, but Lucas still hasn’t touched me.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, squeezing my hand lightly, “your brother is not like you. He never was, and never will be. It was his choice to join UUR, and whether you want to admit it or not, he belonged there more than you ever did.”
The conviction in Lucas’s voice distracts me from the puzzle of his behavior. Frowning, I say, “I don’t think so. Misha probably imagined it would be glamorous, being a spy and all. I’m sure that’s why he joined: so he could play at being James Bond. But when he saw what it was really like—”
“He still wanted it,” Lucas says quietly. “Or wants it, I should say.”
Struck, I stare at him. “What do you mean? He’s going back to school.”
“He is—but only to make you and his parents happy.”
“What? How do you know that?”
Lucas sighs, his thumb stroking the inside of my palm. “He told me. Yesterday. He wants to come work for me when he’s older, but for now, he thinks it’s a good idea to finish civilian school so he could ‘blend better into the general population.’” He pauses, then adds softly, “Those are his words, not mine.”
“I see.” Pulling my hand from his grasp, I get up, my temples throbbing with a headache that has nothing to do with the half-healed gash across my skull. I should be surprised, but I’m not. On some level, I already knew this.
Like Lucas, my brother is drawn to danger, and he’ll eventually embrace this kind of life.
The pain creeps up on me; it’s just a faint ache at first, but with every second, it grows stronger, welling up until it chokes me from within. My throat constricts, and I feel myself start to hyperventilate, frantically sucking in air to fill my stiff and empty lungs. A hoarse sob bubbles up, followed by another and another, and then Lucas is on his feet next to me, drawing me into his embrace as raw, ugly sounds tear from my throat. It feels like I’m cracking inside, like I’m crumbling into bits. I try to stop, to control myself, but the sobs just keep on coming.
“Yulia, sweetheart, it’s okay… Everything’s going to be okay.” Lucas’s arms are around me, holding me tight, and the knowledge that he’s here, that I’m no longer alone, opens the dam even more. The tears pour out, burning and cleansing at the same time, a toxic flood that destroys and renews at once.
I cry for my brother’s future and our past, for all the lies and losses and betrayals. I cry for what might’ve been and what has come to pass, for the cruelty of fate and its incongruous mercy.
I cry because I can’t stop, and because I know I don’t have to.
I trust Lucas to hold me as I break, to lend me his strength when I need it most.
Somehow we end up back on the bed, with me curled in his arms as he rocks me on his lap, cradling me like I’m the most precious thing in his world. And still I cry. I cry until my throat is raw and torn, until my agony drowns in exhaustion. I’m only half-aware when Lucas lays me down and removes my clothes, and by the time he slides in beside me, I’m asleep.
Asleep and purged of all my fears.
* * *
I wake up to find Lucas sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me. Instantly, the recollection of last night comes to me, and I flush, remembering my inexplicable breakdown.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, clutching the blanket to my chest as I sit up. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Lucas doesn’t move. “You have nothing to be sorry for, baby.” Despite the reassuring words, his gaze is inscrutable, his expression still closed off and distant. “You were due for a good cry.”
“Yes, well, I had one, that’s for sure.” Feeling embarrassed, I slide from under the blanket and grab a robe, then slip into the adjoining bathroom to take a quick shower and brush my teeth before the nurses make their morning rounds.
When I come out, I see Lucas still sitting on the bed, unmoving. The bruises on his face—the mementos of his fight with Kirill—are faded now, and with the morning light spilling across his hard, masculine features, he resembles a warrior’s statue more than a living, breathing human being. Only his eyes belie that impression; sharp and clear, they track my every movement the way a big cat watches its prey.
My breath catches, and I find myself walking toward him, my legs carrying me to the bed almost against my will.
When I’m next to him, he curls his hand around my wrist, pulling me down to sit next to him.
“Lucas…” I stare at him, feeling strangely nervous. “What are you—”
“Shh.” He presses two fingers against my lips, his touch incredibly gentle. His eyes burn into mine, and to my shock, I see a dark shadow of agony in his pale gaze. “I’m only going to say it once, and I want you to listen,” he says quietly, lowering his hand. “I’ve deposited some money into your account—about two million to start. Later, I’ll add more, but that should be enough to get you settled in the beginning. Of course, if you ever need anything, you and Michael can always come to me—”
“What?” I reel back, certain I misheard. “What are you talking about?”
“Let me finish.” His jaw is rigid. “I will also provide you with a set of bodyguards,” he continues, his voice growing more strained with each word. “Their job will be to protect you, but I expect you to be smart and not do anything to endanger yourself. If you have to fly somewhere, I’ll send someone to take you, and I’ll personally oversee the security perimeter around your new house. Also—”
“Lucas, what are you talking about?” Shaking, I jump to my feet. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Of course not.” He stands up, his muscles all but vibrating with tension. “You think this is easy for me? Fuck!” He spins around and starts to pace, his every movement filled with barely controlled violence.
Stunned, I watch him for a couple of moments; then the neurons in my brain start to fire. Stepping forward, I catch his arm, feeling the coiled strength within. “Lucas, are you—” I swallow thickly. “Does this mean you’re letting me leave?”
His eyes narrow dangerously. “What else would it fucking mean?”
My heart thuds heavily as I drop my hand. “But why? Is it this?” Self-consciously, I touch the narrow strip of shaved hair on my head, where the stitches from the gash are visible despite my best attempts to hide them. Like Lucas’s, the bruises on my face are almost gone, but the scars from the broken glass are not. They’re healing—the doctors assured me they’ll be all but invisible one day—but for now, I’m far from beautiful, and it suddenly dawns on me that Lucas’s distance may have a very obvious cause.
His desire for me has cooled.
“What?” Incredulity fills his voice as his eyes follow the movement of my hand. “Are you fucking joking? You think I don’t want you because of this wound?”