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Isaiah cocked his head at the wolf. “You’ve been wanting to come here for weeks now, but Sebastian vetoed it, didn’t he? He knew the move was too predictable. He knew we’d be prepared for it. You were aware of the risks. But you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
In a way, Isaiah understood it. He didn’t have siblings, but if he had and their life was cut short, he’d ache to avenge their death.
“You’re wrong,” Tommaso swore with a snarl. “He knows. He’s in your house fucking up your mate as we speak.”
Isaiah tensed, his gut twisting in panic. But then it loosened, because… “No, he wouldn’t sacrifice one of his brothers, especially when he only recently lost another. But when he realizes you’re missing, I’m sure he’ll suspect that our pride killed you. It won’t be a stretch to assume you went against him and then died just as he’d likely warned you would.”
Luke hummed. “Bet you’re wishing you’d listened.”
Tommaso kept his gaze locked on Isaiah. “It was worth it just to make her bleed. Again.”
Isaiah didn’t rise to the attempt to bait him. “Oh, that’s part of why you came tonight, is it? You hated that she got away from you; that she survived the hit.”
Deke snickered at the wolf. “You don’t know shit about black-foots if you were expecting her to be an easy target.”
Tate scratched at his jaw. “Much as it pisses me off that you tried putting a bullet in Isaiah’s mate—a bullet that was far too close to my own mate, come to that—I can’t be sorry that you’re pinned to this roof right now. It means we get to kill you.”
“Congratulations,” Camden drawled. “You’ve made your pack smaller and weaker just like that. We appreciate it.”
Tommaso’s cheeks darkened. “Don’t bother asking me where they are. I’d never tell you.”
“I know that,” said Tate. “I know that, because I have brothers. I wouldn’t give up their location either. Someone could cut me up a piece at a time and I’d still say shit. So I’m not going to waste my time trying to torture the information out of you. That said… torture is still on the table just because.”
The wolf went motionless.
“If you feel like throwing in some helpful info to make it stop early, you do that. If not, well, we’ll just stop when we’re bored.” Tate arched a brow at Isaiah. “Want to be the first to draw blood?”
Oh, Isaiah would have insisted on it. He advanced on the wolf, his cat growling its eagerness to gut him open. “You shot my mate. Twice. I’m going to enjoy every minute of this, I really am.” Isaiah sliced out his claws. “Happy fucking Christmas to me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The one thing that Isaiah hadn’t expected to find when he returned home was the sight of a black mamba looped tight around a bearcat as they rolled around his living room, biting each other and crashing into furniture.
The noise level was horrendous. So much growling and hissing and yowling and objects hitting the floor with a thud.
It wasn’t remotely uncommon for Aspen and Bailey’s animals to get into a tussle, or for those tussles to go so far. But normally, Havana would order them to stop. Tonight, however, she sat on his sofa munching on chips while watching them dispassionately.
He knew why, though. Because it was distracting Quinley. She was so engrossed in the brawl—not to mention preoccupied with picking up fallen objects and setting furnishings to rights—that she wasn’t anxiously awaiting his return. Hell, she hadn’t even noticed him yet.
The bullet graze on her temple was healed, and she’d cleaned the area so there was no blood. But it didn’t unravel the knots inside him, because he could still see the image of her wound in his mind’s eye.
So close. She’d come so close to having a bullet in her brain. Had Tommaso’s shot been more accurate, she’d be gone now. Isaiah would have lost her; lost this person who’d found a way to live in his blood and filled his every empty spot. So no, those knots in his gut weren’t going anywhere.
His cat’s insides were roiling and tightening. Mauling Tommaso to death had given the animal an outlet for his rage, but it hadn’t made him feel any better—let alone calmer.
As if she sensed his presence, Quinley’s attention snapped to Isaiah. Her gaze jerkily roamed over him, as if searching for injuries, as she approached. “I smell blood. It’s not yours,” she added with some relief.
“It belongs to Tommaso Vercetti.”
Havana let out a low whistle.
“That’s who shot at me?” asked Quinley.
“Yes.” Isaiah rested a hand high on her upper arm. “He acted alone; only had a getaway driver with him. Both of them are dead now, and their vehicle is on fire.” One of the enforcers had dumped it in an isolated spot far from here before setting it alight.
Havana went to speak, but then her phone rang, and she scrambled to answer it.
Isaiah turned back to his mate. “You’re good?” he asked, lightly palming the side of her head and breezing his thumb over her now healed graze.
