Page 78 of Possession

I’m already on the ground when I hear it because Roman has already picked up on the threat. My brain seems to glitch at the sudden change from walking pleasantly through the night to sprawling on the concrete. I cover my head instinctively at theanswering shots. Roman is crouched beside me, shielding me with his body as he returns fire.

Quinn shouts at Roman to get in the car. I find myself hauled up and half dragged into the parking lot. As we reach the car, another shot fires. Roman shoves me down again.

“Stay down!” he shouts and launches himself over the trunk of the car, tackling someone on the other side.

I don’t dare get up, but from under the car I watch Roman and the other man’s feet. I can tell which one is Roman by his movement as much as by his shoes. He’s so damn fast and powerful and aggressive. His opponent is on the defensive, already trying to extricate himself before his gun clatters to the ground.

I’m thinking about going for the weapon when someone grabs my arm. I scream, thrashing to get free, but it’s Quinn. He releases me and opens the car door. By the time I scramble inside, Roman’s opponent has fled.

Quinn shouts at Roman to get in.

As my door slams shut, Roman opens the one opposite me, blocking the opening with his body. Keeping his gun in hand and eyes on his surroundings, he waits for Quinn to get in the driver’s seat, then he gets in. He grabs my head and crushes me down onto the seat as Quinn starts the car.

As we pull out onto the street, I remain still under Roman’s hand. All I hear is heavy breathing. Mine. Roman’s. Quinn’s.

Then Roman asks, “Lucas, are you hurt?”

My brain reengages. “No. Are you?”

“No. Quinn?”

“Just a graze.”

I try to sit up, but Roman exerts pressure, keeping me down. When I relax, showing him that I’ll stay down, his hand moves to my shoulder.

I’m anxious about the situation, but I’m very much struck by the way I’m the one being protected, despite the fact that I was most certainly not the target of the attack. It’s not that I’m surprised that Roman would put me first when he’s done it before—many times, really, in various ways—but it’s still a strange way for me to exist in the world. As something important.

Roman’s free hand reaches into his jacket and pulls out his phone. He sends a text. A reply comes through almost immediately.

“Well?” Quinn prompts as though he knows what message Roman would have sent.

Roman replies, “Vitali’s already there.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Roman

“Where are we?” Lucas asks when we stop. He probably expected us to drive to the estate and is surprised that we’ve already reached our destination.

“Our club,” I tell him, keeping my hand on his shoulder, signaling him to stay down as Quinn gets out of the car.

Lucas doesn’t ask for more information and I’m glad. Talking is still not that easy for me, especially when I’m stressed. I have to deliberately make myself speak, and that takes focus. I have little to spare right now. I can’t even afford to be angry. Not yet.

As I get out, I exert pressure with my hand, telling Lucas not to move. He’s used to my nonverbal signals and obeys.

Scanning the private parking area, I walk around the car to Lucas’s side. Quinn is already waiting at the club’s back door, alert and with his gun in hand. I don’t think we were followed, but neither of us is about to let our guard down.

When I open Lucas’s door and motion to him, he scrambles out. I shield him with my body as we hustle to the door that Quinn opens for us.

As we enter the club, my senses are immediately assaulted by slashing lights, a writhing mass of people, and a techno beat thumping through it all.

In some ways, I handle these total assaults on my senses better than the everyday chaos of the city. It reminds me of walking through the crowd in Oscar Crowley’s warehouse on my way to the fighting ring. There’s so much surrounding me that it kind of simplifies itself. I focus on anomalies. Movement that’sout of sync with the crowd. Sounds that disrupt the general cacophony.

I guide Lucas along the edge of the crowd to a guarded set of stairs that take us up to the more exclusive mezzanine level. Quinn and I have stowed our guns, but our brisk movement has people looking up from their conversations at the banquettes.

As we approach the door to the private rooms, Sasha opens it and stands back. Our passage through the club has been tracked via cameras, reported also by security. This is one of the reasons, in addition to the club being closer than the estate, that we’ve come here. Between the extra security and the public as a buffer, attack here is less likely and easier to repel.

As we enter the lavish office/lounge, Sasha closes the door behind us. Vitali is standing behind the desk talking on his phone.

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