Page 89 of Nothing More

Toly did hit him, then. A fast strike, satisfying smack of his knuckles on the edge of his jaw that left Toly’s hand numb, and Shep’s head snapping back to thump into the elevator wall.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Hey!” Bennet shouldered between them. He shoved Toly back to the far corner and caught Shep by the biceps when he would have lunged forward to retaliate. “Knock that shit off, both of you.”

Shep leaned around Bennet to snarl at Toly, all his laughter replaced by the ugly anger that seemed always to simmer just beneath his joking veneer. “You fucking upstart,” he growled. “Fucking borscht-eating, vodka-swilling, Kremlin kiss-ass piece of shit, you don’t even–”

“Shepherd.” Bennet gave him a shake. “Get ahold of yourself, dipshit. Before you say something you regret.”

“He hit me!”

“Yeah, and you deserved it. Now knock it off.”

Shep snatched out of his grip – but turned and folded his arms, muttering under his breath. “Asshole…motherfucker…can’t take a joke…fucking…”

Bennet turned to Toly. “You got one shot,” he said, and held up a finger, warningly. “Rein it in, now.”

Toly nodded, grudgingly. Deep down, though, he regretted the lapse in self-control. He’d never been a hothead; had never once gotten into a dust-up with a compatriot in the bratva, nor in the club…so far.

Bennet nodded, too, but Toly could tell by his expression that he wanted so say something else. As the elevator slowed, he asked, quietly, “Did you really?”

Toly stared at him.

Ding. Glide of the doors.

“Alright,” Bennet said. “Just…be careful. I don’t think I gotta tell you she’s too good for the likes of us. And at least two of her brothers are trained assassins, so.” He shrugged, turned and stepped off the elevator.

Toly followed.

They cleared the apartment in short order. If anyone had been inside since Toly and Miles left earlier, it would be up to the cameras to tell them.

Raven arrived, walking briskly through the door and down the hall toward her room. The door shut behind her with a decisive click.

Toly felt the strangest urge of his life: to follow her. To slip inside her room, shut the door, and crowd her up against her dresser again. Touch her, bite at the side of her throat, get her all liquid, and soft, drive all the bad thoughts from her head. His own twisted idea of offering comfort and solace. He didn’t know how to offer it in a way that didn’t involve an orgasm or two.

Belatedly, he realized that Ian was studying him. Frowning, hands in his pockets.

Slowly, so as not to look caught-out, Toly turned away; went to the windows and looked out at the soot-smudged city sprawled beneath a leaden sky, ignored the quick thump-thump of his heart that sounded likeguilty-guilty.

Raven returned a few minutes later, dragging a rolled suitcase. Then she went down the opposite hall, toward Cassandra’s room. She came back with two suitcases, that time.

“I had no idea what to bring,” she said, to Ian, presumably, because she still hadn’t so much as peeked in Toly’s direction. “I got her laptop, and a few books, her phone charger. Clothes, pajamas. But she’s got so muchstuff. I’m sure I’ve left out something essential.” She rolled her eyes.

Ian took the bags from her – and handed them off to a still-sulking Shepherd. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he said, soothingly. “She’s a sensible girl. When she wants to be,” he added in response to Raven’s expression.

“She’s going to freak,” Raven said, despondency creeping into her flat tone. “She’ll never want to come back to the flat after this.”

“Nonsense. She’ll be fine when everything’s sorted.”

Raven offered him a tight, fleeting smile that said she knew he was offering platitudes on principle alone. Then she sighed again and surveyed the flat. “Well. I suppose that’s everything for now.” Her gaze landed on the Christmas tree, and stayed there a moment, expression going wistful.

Toly hadn’t bothered to look at it earlier, a blur of light and color in his periphery as he watched an intruder stalk through the apartment on grainy security video. He looked now, noted the way Raven had put her touch on it, though she hadn’t wanted a tree to begin with. The ornaments weren’t expensive, but she’d picked shiny ones, and lots of them; had overstuffed the tree so it gleamed and glittered, colored balls interspersed with crystal-look bangles and snowflakes. The effect was an elegant tree, the sort you could find in an upscale boutique alongside designer fashions.

The tree was lovely, because everything Raven touched was lovely. The women who’d run with the bratva – strippers, hookers, and coke-heads, mostly, with the occasional misguided young thing who’d wandered into a horror show thrown in the mix – had all-too-often worried about their physical appearance, and their physical appearance only. He recalled cluttered backstage areas, clothes dropped in heaps, makeup spilled over lighted tables, wastebaskets overflowing with tampon wrappers. There’d been musty apartments that hadn’t seen a dust cloth in ages, sinks full of dishes. Life had been hard on those girls, but they’d tried to put on a show, to decorate themselves like poison butterflies to attract moneyed mates.

With Raven, though, it was genuine. Every inch of her apartment, every inch of her agency: intentional. Pretty. Welcoming, and soothing, and inspiring. She’d chosen the art prints on the walls at Intemporelle; selected everything from the tile in the bathrooms to the brands of tea on offer in the lounge. If she was going to have a Christmas tree, she was going to make it a showstopper – and she had.

He looked from its loveliness to hers; saw the regret plucking at the corners of her mouth, and could envision her placing each ornament with Cassandra last night. Had they listened to music? Played cheesy movies in the background?

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