Page 87 of Golden Eagle

She dropped her head for a moment, looked down at her boots. When she looked at him, shook her hair back off her face and locked gazes with him again, he was surprised by the rawness of her expression. Not just hurt, but doubt and hopelessness, too. All the heat had bled out of her voice. When she spoke, it trembled. “You’re a fighter. I know that; it’s a part of who you are. If you hadn’t hurt your hand all those years ago, you would have fought until some other injury laid you out. Being a cop is your backup plan.” When he started to protest, she said, “Iknowthat, Lanny.”

He fell silent.

“Just like I know that Nik killed innocent people when he was a Chekist. He burst into houses on orders and stole from them, terrified them. And I know that Alexei turned you, without being asked to.

“And I know you killed a man behind a fucking Subway on the way to Virginia.” Her next breath shuddered. “And I shot men with Katya’s old rifle. The rifle I’ve been keeping in the back of my closet ever since.

“We’ve all got blood on our hands. We’re all capable of terrible things – me included. But you didn’t even try to talk to me about this – about the way you’ve been feeling. Like I’m just some nagging girlfriend you need to get away from, and not a part of this pack.”

Of all the things he’d expected her to say, none of it had beenthat.

He swallowed. “Pack? You’re starting to sound like Sasha.”

“And you sound like someone in denial about who he really is. We’re a pack, Lanny. That’s the word for it. You’re a vampire, and it isn’t something that’s going to change, no matter how long you put off seeing your mom.” She turned for the door.

Like earlier today, his insides screamed at the idea of separation: of her walking away from him. But he took a tight grip on it, teeth gritted. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded, but kept moving.

“Trina, can’t we – come on, let’s talk about it. You can yell some more – or, talk forcefully. Let me explain.” And how lame that sounded, because she already had it all figured out, inside out, backward and forward, so much more thoroughly than he himself. “Trina.”

“I need some time to myself,” she said over her shoulder, and opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, the desperate shaking of all his instincts bleeding into his voice.

She paused a moment, in acknowledgment, then went out and shut the door behind her.

He counted to ten, then turned around and chucked the ice pack across the room. It hit one of his old framed boxing photos, and shattered the glass.

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