Page 11 of Thrown to the Wolves

Public endorsement, she calls it.

“I trust you took care of the situation?” she asks me.

My chin lifts a notch. “Of course.”

“And this…witness? Was she hurt?”

I shrug. “A little shaken up, but she proved tougher than she looked.” My mind unhelpfully supplies an echo of Scarlett’s soft breasts in my hands, the taste of her on my tongue as she came for me. “She’s the one who sewed me up. Back at her place.” Shut up, Wolf. I’ve already said too much, and if I start babbling, it’ll only raise questions.

But understanding flickers in Hadria’s eyes. “I see. Well, as entertaining as your exploits sound, I need you back on mission.” She takes a seat at the head of the table, the leather chair creaking softly beneath her as she folds her hands over flower arrangement brochures. “Every day this assassin roams free, more members of the Syndicate are at risk. Not to mention Juno Bianchi’s getting antsy. She agreed to a partnership only because things were stabilizing here in Chicago, and if she pulls out?—”

“She won’t pull out.”

“Seriously, Lyssa—I need you to put all your efforts into neutralizing this threat.”

My jaw tightens. Seriously, Lyssa. Does she think I’m fucking around?

Okay, well, maybe a little. It’s been two weeks since Yuri was killed, and I really should’ve tracked down that Sokolov-territory bar long before last night. I could blame all the fuss about the wedding of the fucking century taking up time—the happy couple have held more than one engagement party here at the Empire Grand—but it would just be an excuse.

And getting distracted by a pretty face when I was there for intel last night was a rookie move—one that could prove fatal with a killer on the loose.

“I get it,” I tell Hadria. “And I’m on it.”

“Good.” Hadria sinks back in the seat and—for a moment—she looks tired. “You know I wouldn’t be sending you if it wasn’t important. This assassin is…disturbing. No one’s claimed responsibility, and that worries me. If anything, I would have expected them to be shouting it from the rooftops, how they’re taking on the Syndicate and whittling our numbers down. Even Nero was quick to take the credit when it wasn’t even him.”

Her brother, Nero, was exactly the type to do that—take credit without putting in the work. I will never not be happy when I think about him dying at Hadria’s hands, even if his invasion of Elysium meant we had to pull the whole place down and start again.

I miss Elysium.

“So I need my best on this,” Hadria is going on. “And that’s you.”

The unasked-for praise still sends a swell of pride through me. We have a long history together, and I know nothing could ever come between us. But it’s still nice to hear her acknowledge our bond, especially given all the time she’s spending with Aurora lately. I get it, and I don’t grudge them for it, but I can’t deny I’ve felt a little…

Well. Lonely.

“You don’t need to worry,” I assure her. “I’ll take care of it. You get on and plan your fairytale wedding. God knows I can’t wait to see you in a big puffy dress, Hades.”

“Fuck you,” she says, but she can’t hide the smirk as, with a subtle tilt of her chin, she dismisses me.

Laughing, I exit the suite, but I’ve only made it a few paces down the hall when I nearly collide with Mrs. Graves. The older woman lets out a soft tsk as she steadies me with a firm hand.

“Easy, dear.” Her warm eyes crinkle with fond exasperation as she gives me a once-over. “Where’s the fire?”

“Sorry, Mrs. G.” The old nickname slips out automatically. “I was just going to give this another look.” I nod down at my injured arm.

Mrs. Graves’ expression pinches with concern as she takes my hand, bringing my arm out to get a look at it. “Oh, Lyssa…this doesn’t look good at all.” She starts to guide me back down the hallway. “Come along now, let’s get you patched up properly in my room.”

“Nah,” I say, tugging my arm back. “I have work to do.” The stern look she gives me almost makes me waver. “Look, I need to track down this asshole who’s picking us off, and Hadria and Suzy want to see you—right?” She gives a glance down the hallway, and I lay on the final sweetener. “If the arm’s still feeling bad when I get back later, I’ll come to your room and let you poke at it. Deal?”

Mrs. Graves is the closest thing to a mother that I’ve known. She took a teenaged Hadria and me in off the streets after we tracked down her daughter’s killer and gave out the gift of justice. She and Hadria have both seen me at my worst and still stood by me, becoming the only real family I’ve ever known.

So when she makes me promise to come see her if it’s not feeling better, I do promise—and I mean it.

I get back to my room finally, and peel off the waterproof bandage myself, even though Scarlett told me not to. Shit. It’s red and inflamed, and when I poke at it, I hiss through my teeth at the sudden shot of pain.

Did those fuckers deliberately load up their blades with tetanus or something? Or maybe I should’ve listened to Scarlett and let her give me that antibiotic shot.

Scarlett. Again I’m thinking of Scarlett. Damn it, what is it about her? Something about her haunted eyes and strange fragility-over-strength has burrowed into my brain in a way no one-night stand ever has before.

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