Page 45 of Thrown to the Wolves

I shake my head slowly. “It wasn’t me.”

Scarlett’s composure crumbles then, a strangled sob tearing from her throat as she drops to her knees, anguished cries echoing off the grimy walls. I’ve seen her angry, determined, flirtatious—but never this hurt, this…broken.

Not even at the motel the other night.

Something urges me forward, my body acting on instincts I didn’t know I possessed. In two strides, I’m kneeling before her, wrapping my arms around her shuddering frame and pulling her against my chest. She doesn’t resist, her tears soaking through my shirt as I hold her tight, shielding her from the cruelties of this world, if only for a moment.

We stay like that for what feels like an eternity, her ragged breaths slowly evening out against the steady thrum of my heartbeat. When she finally pulls back, her eyes are red-rimmed but clear, shining with a turbulent blend of gratitude, affection, and...

“Lyssa,” she whispers. Keeping her gaze locked on mine, Scarlett leans in infinitesimally. My breath catches in my throat. Our lips are so close I can feel the heat of her breath fanning across my skin.

Then, with a low, desperate sound, she presses her mouth into mine. I return the embrace, increasing the intensity in time with her needy whimpers. My mouth moves on hers almost desperately, and my hands knot in her silky hair, pulling her closer still as my body arches instinctively into hers. There’s some primal, electric energy between us that has me craving more, more.

Her arms tighten around me, one hand splaying over my lower back while the other cups the nape of my neck, holding me in place as she plunders my mouth right back with ruthless, relentless hunger.

Time loses all meaning beyond the slick heat of our mingled breaths, the frantic hammering of my pulse, the dizzying spiral of need blazing through my veins. I’m drowning, but for once it’s not in blood—no, this is an entirely different kind of submersion.

And just as abruptly as it was cast, the spell shatters.

There’s a harsh clatter, boots on concrete—muffled shouts ringing out in Russian. Scarlett tenses as I do, her entire body going rigid as we break the kiss, our heads whipping around to pinpoint the source of the disturbance.

Five stocky men with shaved heads are headed toward us, fists raised and fury etched into their brutish features.

We both get to our feet.

Eyes narrowing, I shove Scarlett behind me and assume a defensive position, fists raised as the men advance.

“Murdering bitch!” one of them snarls, beady eyes bright with undisguised hatred. “You killed Yuri, and now you’ll pay for every drop of his blood!”

Sokolov bratva. Great.

“For fuck’s sake,” I sigh, “I didn’t kill Yuri.”

“Not you,” he spits, further enraged, and points a large, stained knife behind me at Scarlett. “Her.”

“Get out of here,” Scarlett says in a low voice. “This is my problem.”

She’s right about that. I should go. And Hadria has ordered that Syndicate members should back off the Sokolovs for now.

“What, and miss all the fun?” I ask brightly.

I’ve already instinctively positioned myself between Scarlett and the threat, even though the reality is that she’s just as much a threat to me as these Sokolovs—more, actually. But the protective urge, the need to shield this woman I’m supposed to have killed myself by now, is just too overwhelming.

“But—” she begins, but the bratva are still coming. They’re out for blood, that much is clear from their snarls and blades.

“You gonna pay for this,” their leader goads, his teeth bared in an ugly grin. “I’m gonna slice you up, little girl.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Scarlett reaching for her knife. I take out mine, too, and hope she won’t just plant hers in my back.

But Hadria’s command still echoes in my head. Back off the Sokolovs.

“You know, this doesn’t have to get messy,” I call out, letting my voice take on that steely edge that commands respect...or at least pause. “We’re not looking for trouble.”

The brute throws back his head with a bark of laughter. “Too late for that, lapochka. Should’ve thought of that before you crossed the Sokolovs.”

“For the last time, Yuri wasn’t a Sokolov,” I snap back. “He worked for me. For the Syndicate.”

“Yet here you are sucking face with the bitch who killed him,” the guy growls back. “Seems to me like you need putting down too, Wolf.”

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