Page 127 of Root

“I’m sorry—”

“We do things for love,” she says, and I don’t think she just means my brother.

She gets up, and moves off to her husband’s arms. Nikolai’s people surround the area and he’s on the phone, giving orders to some clean up crew.

How the hell do I pay them back?

Because if Rush hadn’t turned up with a cavalry he didn’t need—he took those guys out like a pro, like it was nothing—I’d be dead.

“You idiot,” I say to Jack, who’s staring after Rose with intent. “Do you want to die?”

“What—”

I grab him and hug him hard.

“That woman, Jack, is Nikolai Wilder’s wife.”

“Shit,” he says.

I lean on the counter in the kitchen as my brother wolfs down a meal Mia served him. “I could stay here forever,” Jack says, taking another bite of the thick sandwich.

“Don’t get used to it.” I dip my spoon in the homemade chicken noodle soup, but I don’t eat it, and Jack pops the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth, then swaps his empty soup bowl for mine.

“I think I am.” He looks around. “I’m so used to this I’m naming a wing here after myself.”

“No.” I glare. “You’re not.”

There’s silence. “Lady M—Jess, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so caught up, but…”

I pick up the nice whiskey I poured for myself. The bottle was out, and Mia said something about chocolate whiskey cake, so I wonder if this is considered cooking booze here, because this isn’t the caliber of the booze that’s in various rooms for drinking.

I take a swallow and set the glass down.

It doesn’t matter.

“I get it, Jack, I do. But we have to change. And the ease of jobs and housing that comes with gang stuff isn’t the way. We could go to New York, shit, even Canada. L.A. There’s a million towns and places we could go. Honest work.”

He tilts his head and dips the spoon into the soup. “Or we can stay here.”

“This is a crime family, Jack.”

“So? We’re not lily-white, y’know.”

“I mean it. New start. Be ready to leave tonight or tomorrow.”

There’s no pressure, but the urge is there.

And it’s not, no matter how it feels, running away.

But before we do anything, I need to see Rush.

Nope, not running away at all.

“Rush?”

His hair’s dark gold, bordering on caramel when wet, and his back’s broad and sleek, perfectly muscled.

The old denim jeans that he probably spent a fortune on—yet another reason why we’d never work—sit low on his hips, exposing the black band of his underwear.

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