Page 32 of Draven

I get up, settle beside her on the couch, and slip an arm around her shoulders. See, good at compartmentalizing.

Her entire body trembles. “I can’t bear it, Draven.” She rests her head on my shoulder, and something shifts in my chest. It isn’t sympathy. I don’t fucking do sympathy.

I clear my throat. “We’ll get her back.”

“How?”

“Because I’m fucking amazing.” My egotistical response brings a faint smile to her lips.

“Arrogant ass.”

“That, too,” I say. “So, do you want to hear my plan?”

She sits up straighter. “You have a plan?”

“Did you doubt me again, Lola?”

Her throat bobs as she swallows. “About that…”

I raise a hand. “Not now. Let’s focus.” Once I’ve grabbed the backpack off the floor, I delve inside and remove a red wig and a pair of thick-framed glasses. “These are for you.”

She frowns, taking the wig from me, but leaving me holding the glasses. “What on earth am I supposed to do with this?”

“Wear it.”

She rolls her eyes. “I get that, but why?”

“Because I can see Kiera in you, and I don’t want to take any chances. The wig and the glasses will detract from the similarities between you.”

“You’re not making sense, Draven.”

“We’re going to a club.”

“What club? And why do I need a disguise to go there? Jesus, it’s like pulling teeth.”

“It’s Arjan Shala’s club.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, the air whistling through her teeth. “He owns a club? Do you think he might be holding Kiera there?” she asks, her voice rising with false hope.

“Doubt it.”

Her shoulders sag and she drops the wig in her lap. “Then, what’s the point in going?”

“Because my sources tell me he’s going to be there tonight, and if that’s true, it’s our chance to get a look at the guy in person, watch his movements, maybe even stumble across a piece of intel.” I hand her a card. “Memorize this. Probably overkill, but I’d prefer not to take any chances.”

She glances down, skimming her cover story in the unlikely event we draw suspicion and end up being questioned.

“Bonnie? Really? And who the fuck are you? Clyde?”

A chuckle skips through my chest. Even when I’m pissed at her, she delights me. “Ciaran came up with the names, so blame him. I’m Harrison Bennett.”

She snorts. “Sorry, but you can’t pull off a Harrison. He’s a lawyer, clean-shaven, short hair, drives a Prius, recycles his waste, and returns home from work before six.”

“You’re wrong. He’s a long-haired, bearded super-hunk who has a ten-inch cock and fucks his lady over the dinner table every night.”

She narrows her eyes. “I take it you’re describing yourself?”

“And you’re hoping his lady’s name is Bonnie, right?”

---