Page 56 of Fired at the Heart

“The team will want an explanation.”

“Tell them I’m securing our position after the Rockford job. Tell them anything plausible.” I pause, considering. “And let them know they’re covered. The money’s clean. No blowback coming.”

Lena snorts. “Clean money from a Rockford. That’s a first.”

“Raphael’s legitimate businesses generate plenty of clean cash.” Even now, I find myself defending him. Old habits.

“If you say so.” Lena shifts her weight. “Two weeks, then?”

“Two weeks,” I confirm. “I’ll contact you when I’m ready.”

She hesitates, uncertainty cracking her calm. “Are you sure you don’t need me to go with you? I can hand off the cash to Jace for distribution.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt myself.” I swallow hard, fighting the burn in my throat. “The bond’s been dead for years. Today was just made it official.”

We both know it’s a lie, but Lena is kind enough not to call me on it.

“Take care of yourself,” she says, the closest to sentimentality she’s ever gotten.

Then she turns and walks to the car we arrived in, sliding into the driver’s seat without looking back.

I remain in place as she drives away before I walk across the street to where Raphael’s sports car sits parked. The door pops open with ease, and I find the key fob in the cup holder. Such a bad habit.

There’s a certain poetry to stealing Raphael’s vehicle to leave here after he stole years of my life.

Instead of getting in, though, I lean on the door and focus on the warehouse across the street. The ambulance hasn’t arrived yet. I need Raphael to walk out alive before I leave. Need to confirm that our plan worked as intended, that while I broke our bond, we both survived.

The sound of sirens grows louder, and an ambulance rounds the corner, red lights flashing. It pulls up to the warehouse entrance, and two paramedics jump out, retrieving a gurney from the back.

Finally, I slip into the driver’s seat, close the door, and start the engine. Still, I don’t leave.

Minutes tick by, and then the warehouse door opens. One of the paramedics emerges first, followed by Raphael, who walks between them, one hand pressed to his chest where the second injection went in. Even from this distance, I see the confusion, the disorientation.

His eyes search the street, pausing on his car, but the tinted windows hide me from view.

The paramedics help him into the back of the ambulance, while another comes out with Ezra on the gurney. He’ll be out for an hour, at least. The sedative we used was designed to work fast and keep him out of our way.

Reassured of Raphael’s survival, I pull away from the curb, forcing myself not to look in the rearview mirror as the ambulance shrinks behind me.

* * *

The silence of the safe house surrounds me as I step in from the attached garage, where I hid Raphael’s flashy car. In this neighborhood, it would stand out too much.

I flip the light switch, and a bare bulb flickers to life, casting harsh shadows across the sparse furnishings. I see the worn couch, a kitchen table with mismatched chairs, and a doorway leading to a bedroom, which only contains a bed and dresser.

This place has always been functional, nothing more. A place to disappear to, not a place to live. Perfect for my needs.

I lock the door behind me, sliding both deadbolts into place and activating the electronic security system. The familiar routine grounds me, giving my hands a task to keep them from shaking. I set Raphael’s car keys on the counter with a metallic clatter.

My body jerks, disjointed, like my skin no longer fits. The spot where my Mark used to be burns cold, an impossible contradiction of sensation. Studies on broken bonds say the surviving mate will continue to experience phantom pain and disorientation. The biological equivalent of withdrawal. They say it passes in a few days. They also say some people never recover.

I strip off my jacket, dropping it on the floor. My gun follows, then my shoes. Each movement requires concentration, as if I’ve forgotten how my limbs work. In the kitchen—an alcove with a sink and mini-fridge—I search the cabinets until I find the expensive bottle of whiskey stashed here months ago for an emergency.

If this doesn’t qualify as an emergency, nothing does.

I unscrew the cap and drink straight from the bottle. The liquor burns my throat, a welcome distraction from the cold emptiness spreading through my chest. I take another swallow, then another, willing the alcohol to work faster, to numb the pain.

The couch catches me when my legs give out. I sink into the worn cushions, bottle clutched in my fist like a lifeline. The liquid sloshes amber in the harsh light, hypnotic in its movement. I stare at it, focusing on the way it catches the light rather than the memories threatening to drown me.

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