Page 29 of Her Darkest Possession
Fuck!
"How many men can you get assembled in the next two hours?" I ask.
Roma pauses before answering. "Ten men. Not much more than that on such short notice. Not in Hell's Kitchen, at least."
I glance at Indigo, whose eyes haven't left my face. Her expression is determined, fierce despite her fear.
"Ten will have to do," I tell Roma. "Get them ready. I'll meet you in two hours."
"What are you going to do?" Indigo asks as soon as I hang up, her voice barely above a whisper. "And who's Killian?"
"Killian O'Shea runs the Irish mob out of Hell’s Kitchen." I don't sugar-coat it. Not with her. Not anymore. "He owns strip clubs and brothels on both sides of the Hudson. He's been neutral in our conflicts for decades, but I suspect that he's about to change that today. I'm going to get Amara back from him."
"How? What could you even offer him?" Indigo asks. "What would make him choose you over the Volkovs?"
"I don't know yet," I admit, rubbing my thumb across her knuckles. "But I will not allow Amara to become part of his operation."
She nods. "I know you won't."
I stand up, walk around the desk, and pull her into my arms. She feels small against me, fragile yet somehow unbreakable. I press my face into her hair, and inhale her scent as if to memorize it forever.
"I'll come back with Amara," I promise. "No matter what it takes."
Indigo presses her face closer into my chest. I don't want to let her go. After everything—after nearly losing her and our child so soon—the thought of walking away from her, no matter how short, feels impossible.
But I have to.
Reluctantly, I pull back, and reach into my pocket for a keycard.
"There's a panic room in the west wing." I press the card into her palm. "Stay there until I return. The door is reinforced steel. No windows. The only way in is with this keycard. You'll be safe there."
Indigo looks down at the keycard, then back up at me. Slowly, her eyes start filling with determination.
"Bring my sister back to me. And if you can, bring Grisha as well."
The command is unmistakable in her voice. All that is missing are those three familiar words.
Eto moi prikaz.
"I will," I promise before I bend down and kiss her.
This kiss is nothing like the ones in the past. Gone is the hunger and desperation that urge us to tear at each other's clothes. Andneither is this the slow, languid ones where I map every corner of her mouth with my tongue.
This one is quick and urgent.
There's too much at stake for anything else.
But even in its brevity, a spark passes between us. A soft gentle thing that promises and reminds us of what we've become to each other.
Of what weshouldbe to each other.
Even if neither of us have said it out loud.
When I pull away, I see the unmistakable fire of determination burning in her eyes. It's that same fire that Ifeltwhen she pressed that razor against my throat all those weeks ago.
It's that same fire I tasted and stoked during that marathon of lovemaking that created the life growing inside of her right now.
It's the fire that I fell in love with.
