Page 35 of Thrown to the Wolves

“Listen, Scar—I don’t want you to misunderstand. I’ll help you find your brother’s killer. But when it’s done…I’ll have to kill you. I have my orders from Hades, and you killed Syndicate members. There’s no way out of it. You gotta take what’s coming to you.”

I close my eyes, the weight of her words bringing me right back down to earth. I know she’s right. I knew where this path ended from the moment I started down it.

But even so, even with the specter of death hanging over me…I can’t bring myself to regret it. Because on any other path, I never would have met the woman lying warm and soft next to me, stroking my hair back from my face gently.

“I understand,” I say, my voice steady. “As long as you understand I won’t go without a fight.”

“I never thought different.”

She still sounds regretful, like she knows already that I won’t survive. But me? I have different plans.

“Then I accept your terms,” I tell her, then add, “You never know, I might die before we get to that point. Or you might. On this little quest of ours.”

Lyssa grins, but something like respect flickers in her eyes.

She leans over to turn out the light, and as we lie there in the darkness, the rain beating against the windows, I know my fate is sealed, one way or another.

But for the first time in a long time…I’m not alone.

CHAPTER 17

Lyssa

The exclusive wedding boutique might as well be half a world away from the grittier side of Chicago, a haven of distilled femininity that seems to exist outside of time. As I step through the door, the delicate chime of the bell echoing, I’m wrapped in the scent of roses, and my boots immediately leave scuffs in the fluffy white carpet. The walls are lined with only a few dresses but a lot more full-size posters that look like they belong in Vogue, each one showcasing a masterpiece of silk and lace, tulle and satin. A large, ornate mirror dominates one wall, the gilded frame glinting in the glow of the mini-chandeliers overhead.

I hate everything about the place immediately.

I hate the smell of it, I hate the puffy dresses, and I especially hate the shop assistants, three immaculately-dressed women with perfectly coiffed hair and painted faces, who greet me with practiced smiles. One of them holds out a silver tray bearing a flute of champagne. The crystal glass sparkles in the soft light, the bubbles dancing merrily within as the assistant smiles behind it.

Okay, maybe I hate her a little less than the others, if she’s going to keep me in drink. I grab the glass, scanning the room. There’s no customers here because it’s 3 a.m. or somewhere about there, and the shop opened specially for Ms. Imperioli.

“Where is she?” I ask.

Before they can answer, Hadria emerges from a changing room, clad in a frothy, lacy pantsuit with a bustle in the jacket. She does a little twirl, the bustle bouncing around as she does.

“What do you think?” she asks, her voice tinged with a rare note of uncertainty.

“You look like one of those crochet dolls that old ladies put over toilet rolls in the bathroom. And that bustle? Not doing your ass any favors, Hades.”

Hadria fixes me with the same stare that makes half the Syndicate quake. “You’re not helping. This isn’t exactly fun for me either, you know.”

I step closer, lowering my voice. “Yeah? Well, I have some news that’ll make your day even less fun.”

She sighs, her lacy shoulders slumping. “Come into the changing room. We can talk there.”

I follow her into the spacious room, which has a whole rack of suits lining one wall. Hadria pulls off her outfit and throws it carelessly onto a pile in the corner, then slips into the next option, the lace replaced by sleek satin. The cream fabric shimmers in the soft light, the color a perfect complement to her pale-as-fuck skin.

But it’s way too goddamn shiny.

“Why on earth aren’t you getting something custom made?” I ask, running my fingers over the fabric. It’s cool to the touch, the satin slipping through my fingers like water. Nice to sleep in, maybe, as sheets. But for clothes?

“I am,” she snaps. “But the dressmaker wanted me to find the kind of style I wanted, first.”

I stare at the suit, my brow furrowed. “This is better than the last one. But they’re both too…frou-frou for you. Stand over there, for God’s sake. Let me handle this.”

As I browse through the options, I fill Hadria in on the latest developments with Scarlett. I tell her about our meeting, the video of her brother’s murder, Grandmother’s involvement. But I leave out the more intimate details.

Scarlett crying in my arms.

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