Page 66 of Inked Athena

My voice comes out low and deadly. “Myles Hagerty.”

He risked the Bratva. Innocent civilians. And Nova…

He put Nova in danger.

That is a mistake I cannot overlook.

That is a mistake I cannot forgive.

“Pack your shit and get the fuck out.”

25

NOVA

What kind of colossal ass?—

What kind of power-hungry maniac?—

What kind of supposedfriendwould do something like this?

My hands tremble as I pace the tower bedroom for the hundredth time, my footsteps echoing off stone walls that have witnessed centuries of drama but surely never anything this absurd. The portraits of stern-faced Scottish lords seem to judge my life choices as I stomp past them. Even Finbarr has taken shelter under the massive four-poster, only his judgmental green eyes visible as he watches me wear a path in the floor.

“This is insane,” I tell him. She blinks slowly, unimpressed.

Myles is packing his bags right now, and it’s all my fault. Myles, who snuck me phone calls to Hope and Grams when I was crying myself to sleep. Myles, who remembers my weird pregnancy cravings for haggis and strawberry jam. Myles, who’s been Samuil’s right hand through god knows how many riots andwars and business dealings that definitely aren’t in any company prospectus.

Gone. Exiled. Never to darken Castle Moorbeath’s door again.

Because he was kind to me.

“Goddammit!” I cry at the empty room. The syllables echo back, mocking me.

I wonder if Samuil can hear me. I wonder if, down in whatever dark, cobwebby corner he’s found to hole up in, he’s hard at work convincing himself he’s done the right thing.

It would be fitting. I’m up here hating myself—he’s down deep, so utterly certain in his own convictions.

I can’t help but remember the look on Myles’s face as he left the library. I remember the awful things Samuil said. And I remember that all of it was because of me.

My fault.

My fault.

My fault.

As I make the hundred and fiftieth circuit around my room, my jaw sets with determination.

I have to find Myles. I have to speak to him before he leaves.

I’m halfway out the door when I come to an abrupt stop, my hand gripping the centuries-old brass handle. The corridor stretches before me. More dark portraits of stern-faced Scots watch my indecision.

On second thought, it’s not Myles I should be looking for.

It’s the stubborn brute who is making him leave in the first place.

New target in mind, I charge through the castle, my nervous energy suddenly chomping at the bit now that it has a purpose and a nemesis. I need to track Samuil down before it’s too late.

I’m so set on my mission that I almost bowl poor Mrs. Morris over on my way to the ground floor.

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