Page 3 of Resurrection

Lorcan appears overhead. “They’re on their way.” He homes in on my chest. “Holy fuck.”

Finn glares at his brother, and then he smooths the stray strands of my hair. My eyelids are so heavy as I stare up. I crave sleep, to give into the heaviness. My hand strays to whatever is protruding out of my body. If I could take it out, the sting would go away.

Before I can grasp the knife, Finn wraps his hand around mine.

“Don’t touch it. Leave it be. It’s—Jesus—just don’t.” He half turns toward Lorcan. “Which motherfucker did this?”

Lorcan shakes his head. The bar has quieted down, eerily quiet. “They’re gone. Ran off.”

“Doesn’t matter. They all had a part in it.” Finn squeezes my hand. “Every one of them.”

“Finn,” I wheeze out.

Speaking is a strain. My body is a raging fire and an ice bath. I shiver and sweat, shiver and sweat.

“Help’s coming.” He grazes my forehead with his thumb, and my eyelids flutter. “What’s taking them so fucking long?”

The front door slams open, and the squeak of the stretcher’s wheels draw my attention. Two paramedics loom over me, exchanging phrases in rapid-fire accented English. My heart. Something is wrong with my heart. Finn is just above their shoulder, staring at me with thinly veiled panic and far too much rage. I will him to come with me because I don’t understand what’s happening. The words won’t leave me. My body isn’t my own.

When I’m lifted onto the stretcher, I try to reach out to him, but my arm is too heavy, weighted. Lorcan stares at his brother and then follows me and the paramedics out into the cool night air. As the doors on the ambulance click closed, the last face I see isn’t Finn’s, it’s Lorcan’s.

The sirens blare as we race to the hospital. Finn didn’t even follow me to the ambulance. He’s not coming. Why isn’t he coming? My chest aches, broken by a knife or by Finn’s inattention.

After the surgery, after explaining everything to my parents, who flew in from Chicago, after talking to the police, after waiting days for him to appear, I realize something.

I’m not valued. I’m just disposable.

Chapter One

Finn

Idon’t know where the fuck I am, and I haven’t had a clue for days. Whenever I ask the doctor, who comes around to check on my bullet wounds, he says he’s not paid to answer my questions. He has a Russian accent, which could be a disaster. If the Volkovs busted my ass out of the warehouse being raided by the FBI, I’m in trouble.

Nothing about this place reminds me of a hospital. My room is a sparsely decorated bedroom in an expensive house. The décor is neutral browns and yellows. High-end. No stench of antiseptic.

Indebted to the Volkovs, who dropped me in this steaming heap of shit with Kimi the undercover FBI agent, and Lorcan, my little brother, is one of the worst things I can imagine. Hagen, the oldest son, is a braggart. I should have known he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut about my father’s murder when Kimi showed up in her spandex and leather jacket. Who needs a stick when the carrot looks like that?

The last thing I remember is shooting Kimi in the warehouse after figuring out she was an undercover agent. Lorcan sank acouple bullets in me in retaliation. He thinks he’s in love with her. I can’t believe he picked a piece of ass over his own brother.

My sheets fall out of the way, and I run my palm along my bandages. More like four of Lorcan’s bullets. The doc said whoever shot me had terrible aim, but I’ve been to the shooting range with him. He didn’t miss my vital organs by accident.

There’s a quick rap of knuckles on my half-open door, and a woman strolls in dressed in light-blue scrubs. I’m guessing she’s some kind of nurse, but it’s the first time I’ve seen her. She’s little and blond and walks with a brisk purpose that’s bringing part of my body back to life. If I convince her to braid her hair, she’d do in a pinch.

I angle my chin at her. “You here to look after me?”

With a sidelong glance, she examines the machines and adjusts my covers. The ring on her left hand catches the light, and I suppress a smile.

“Checking in on you.” She opens the curtains.

“You want to come back later and we can get to know each other? Talk about the weather, local sightseeing tours, your favorite restaurant…”

She flashes her ring finger at me. “No, I don’t suppose I want any of that.”

There’s a hint of an accent, but it’s not Russian. What is it?

“Just an engagement ring.”

With a glower, she twists the ring on her finger. “What’s your point?”

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