War(25)

Distractions were something I couldn’t allow, and Milan was the definition of distraction.

But when I’d seen the police at her house, my only thought, my only concern, had been her. Even my own safety had been secondary; she was the only thing that mattered.

Even now, as she stared me with hate, anger in her eyes, she was all that mattered. I could tell her that, but she wouldn’t believe me, and if she did, she wouldn’t care. So I called her bluff.

“The girl, the one who died so painfully earlier. She was a friend?”

Her reaction earlier had left no question of how much she’d cared for the other woman, but the depth of that connection became even clearer as I watched Milan now.

“She was my friend. My family. I’ve known her since I was four years old,” she said.

Her voice was sad, resigned, lacked any trace of the fire she had shown only seconds ago. The overwhelming and completely unfamiliar urge to comfort her almost had me moving. But I stood firm.

She wasn’t thinking, so I had to think for her. I didn’t have the time to try to fight with her. Not now. That energy would be better saved for the fights to come on other fronts. So, since I was dead set on saving her for reasons I couldn’t even articulate, I would do so. Even if she didn’t want me to.

“Do you want to end up like her?”

“What do you know about how she ended up?” Milan asked, her expression flashing.

“I’ve heard what happened,” I replied.

“Heard how?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“An associate shared that information,” I said.

She huffed. “An associate?”

I nodded.

“And did this associate’s information send you running here?” she asked.

I didn’t particularly like that characterization. It made it seem far too much like I cared what happened to her, like I cared about her, but I was in no position to argue the point. After all, here I was. “Yes,” I finally said.

“And I’m supposed to be grateful for that?” she said, voice tight, scornful.

“No. You simply need to answer the question. Do you want to end up like her?” I repeated.

The question hung between us as her expression went from anger to fear. I hated to see it on her face, but at least right now, fear was good for me.

If she was afraid, she wouldn’t be stupid.

If she wasn’t stupid, I might have a chance to save her.

“What’s your answer, Milan?” I asked. “Do you want to end up like her?”

I saw the weight of each of my words as I spoke them, and I saw Milan’s calculation. Even now, underneath the fear, there was stubbornness, and I thought there was a fifty-fifty chance she might try to go her own way if only because I had told her not to.

That stubborn streak probably helped her in her world. In mine, it would kill her. But I still respected that about her. Admired it.

“Answer, Milan,” I said.

My tone was the one I used when I didn’t so much care about the specific answer but still knew I could get one.

Milan, though, was holding out, and for a few seconds I thought she might not answer.

She didn’t have to, though. I would get what I needed from her. The only difference was that the thing I needed from her was one I had never needed from anyone else. The need to see that she was okay, the fact that I actually cared whether she would be.

“I don’t want to end up like her,” she finally said.

Milan blinked rapidly, her dark onyx eyes taking on an eerie glow under the artificial streetlights. I continued to watch her, saw the last bit of wildness leave her as she came to the realization I was her only friend, her only way out of this mess. I didn’t speak until I was sure she had accepted that.

“Don’t do that again, Milan,” I said.

She stood taller, the stubborn tilt coming back to her chin. “What?” she asked.

I shook my head at her horrible lie. I was used to dealing with very good liars. Milan was not good.

“You’re not a very good liar, Milan,” I said.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” she replied, frowning.

“Not today,” I said. A moment later, I continued, “I should leave you here.” I still hadn’t come up with a reason why I hadn’t done just that, but even still, I didn’t move.

“This is all your fault!” she said, glaring at me, her onyx eyes flashing with anger, hurt, and a not-inconsiderable amount of that stubbornness.

“Yes. Something I’m going to great lengths to fix. Don’t make me regret going to the trouble of doing so,” I said.

Then I began to walk, and after a heartbeat, Milan followed.





Fifteen





Milan