Page 66 of Twisted Cage

You’re lucky I like you.

Grigori

I’m lucky you need me.

Me

That too.

Grigori

Don’t get dead.

Me

Eyes on Nikoletta. Above the shoulders. Your life for hers. Got it?

Grigori

I’ll keep your girl safe.

Your girl.

The way those words settle inside me makes every single worry plaguing my mind fade away. There’s a way forward. I just have to find it.

The key to these events is looking like any other guest. Smile, wink, leisurely steps so you look like you’re mingling, when really you have a destination in your sights. With the jazz band kicking it up a notch, I just look like a man escaping the dance floor as couples shift from polite greetings to more private conversations in each other’s arms.

My height exposes me most of the time, but at the moment, allows me to monitor the bar where two serious-looking men scan the room, their heads together as they exchange what looks to be intense words, judging by the shrewd look in their eyes and the serious set of their mouths.

Something about the dark-haired one has my nerves pinging. He’s scanning the crowd too fast, with too much interest, searching.

I keep my distance and head to the small bar closest to them, grab a glass of whiskey, and keep to the shadows. The perfect picture of a man who wants to enjoy his drink in peace. I shift bit by bit; it takes about five minutes, but I’m finally in earshot, just in time to see Nikolaj hand Nikoletta off to Logan Rhodes of all fucking people.

With a conspiratorial smile, he spins her onto the dancefloor, her split parting enough that I catch a flash of “ov” on her thigh before he pulls her tight against him, his hand settling on her lower back, his middle finger landing on the one of those fucking back dimples I’m clearly obsessed with.

Possession burns in my gut. For the first time my name is more than just the last name I shared with my father. It’s claiming what’s mine. It’s the guarantee that while she’s dancing with him now, dancing is as far as it will go.

Those letters belong to me. They’re for my eyes and my eyes only.

She aims her biggest smile of the night thus far right up at him; her eyes light up in a way I haven’t seen since… before.

She might as well sink her knife straight into my gut.

Nikolaj catches my attention from where he stands just beyond the band and summons me over with a subtle jerk of his head.

My phone pings in my pocket again, thank fuck, because much more of this and I don’t know if I’ll resist plucking her straight from his arms and hauling her off caveman style.

So much for listening in on the unannounced guests, but I need to make Nikolaj aware of their presence anyway. Making my way to the other side of the band, I settle in next to him and read the screen.

Sasha: Sandy-blond hair-Jameson Voss, Sentinel in the Order. Distant relative of founder Eleanor Voss. Owns a hedge fund firm in Manhattan. Dark hair-his cousin, Foster Voss. Fired from Stein, Clemmons, and Wright 4 months ago. Gambling and cocaine addictions. Seems to have found a way to stave off the worst of his debts.

I’m sure he did. On the edge. Desperate. Who knows to what level he sank to buy time.

Too much of a risk.

“Something up?” Nikolaj asks, never taking his assessing gaze off the crowd.

I take a sip of my whiskey and keep my eyes on the crowd. On Logan. “Two guys, not on the guest list. Jameson Voss checks out. Foster Voss is a messy fucker.”

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