“Wren isn’t going to have to leave school, is she?” I ask sadly.
Laz puffs out a breath. “I don’t know, kid. I don’t think anyone wants that, but…” His jaw tightens. “She needs help, Lena. Bryce, motherfucker that he is, did a number on her.” His eyes narrow. “Speaking of killing with my own bare hands…”
We sit in silence for a moment.
“How’s your divorce going?” I eventually ask.
“Ugh. Not moving fast enough,” he groans.
“I'm sorry,” I say quietly.
He glances at me and shakes his head. “Don't be. It never should have happened in the first place and I’m relieved to be moving on from it. But, look, with Wren…her parents will figure it out. She does need help, but I’m sure there’s a way for her to stay at Knightsblood.” He clears his throat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. Your boyfriend or whatever you want to call him is glaring fucking death at me, and I can take a hint.” He winks at me and I turn around.
Sure enough, Achilles is standing across the waiting room, leveling an arctic look at Laz.
“Hey, Lena, speaking as a guy?” Laz lowers his voice and leans close. “We don’t look at other guys the way that fucker is looking at me unless the girl in question is something quite a bit more thanit’s complicated.”
30
ACHILLES
I don’tlovethat the older motherfucker with the admittedly impressive physique and “daddy vibes” or whatever the fuck the BookTok crowd is calling it right now is talking so intimately with her.
Or that she leans her head on his shoulder, or that he fuckinghugsher.
Not one. Fucking. Bit.
But I don’t follow him to the bathroom or someplace else out of sight to break his teeth because I do know who Laz Kislev is, and that he's basically Yelena's uncle.
I mean, not heractualuncle, which is why my hands curl to fists when I see them still talking when I get back from grabbing coffee.
But whatever. He’s enough of one to get a pass…this time.
When he glances at me and gets the memo—which I’m sure has nothing to do with the murderous glare I give him—he finally steps away from what’s mine.
Then, curiously and a little impressively, he walks right over to me.
“Achilles, right?”
“Laz, right?”
He smirks. “You don’t have to keep the hackles up, man. I’m not a threat.”
“Which is why I’m just standing here.”
Laz chuckles. “Fuck me, Freud would have a field day with you.”
My brows furrow. “Excuse me?”
“You, my friend,” he says, patting my chest, “area lotlike Nero when he was your age.” He chuckles. “Christ, the way he was when he met Yelena’s mother?” Laz whistles under his breath. “Touch her and dieis putting it mildly.”
“Is there a point to this?”
He’s still smiling, but I don’t miss the glint in his eyes. I also know that Laz Kislev isn’t just a fucking family friend. He’s the head of the Kislev Bratva, which works under the umbrella of the Antonov Bratva, run by Wren’s father, Bane.
So, no: the various tattoos I can see on his arms where he’s rolled his sleeves up aren’t trendy hipster crap.
He’s legit.
