I wish I could afford a gun.
I grabbed the silk robe from the bathroom, didn't bother tying it properly, and opened the door.
Not room service. It was the three alphas from the alleyway who now stood and filled the doorway.
"Do you need some assistance?" The bearded one's voice had gone softer, but the edge was still there underneath. His eyes dropped to my throat, my collarbone, the robe slipping.
"I'm not—" The words came out in pieces. "It's not a heat. My body's confused. It's just—"
The tall one inhaled. His pupils swallowed the gray. "You’re burning."
"Tell us what you need." The black-haired one this time. Blue eyes. No blinking.
The control I'd been running on since Dublin, since Finn, since the caravan and every careful, terrified choice I'd made for two years—snapped.
"I need it to stop."
The bearded one stepped forward and caught me before my knees gave out.
"We've got you."
Two days later I woke up in a different room. A suite that I never remember moving to.
It came back to me in fragments afterward. Skin. Teeth. The taste of champagne that I'd later learn was their pack scent. Ivan laughed against my throat while Gregor lifted me out of a bath I didn't remember getting into. Artem fed me food and water. His voice in my ear, low and constant, promising things in Russian I couldn't understand and didn't need to.
They didn't stop. Over and over they knotted me, individually, together. And I loved it all.
It wasn’t until the fever broke and I surfaced like a diver coming up too fast, gasping and fuzzy-headed and alone in a hotel bed with sheets that would need to be burned.
Morning light through curtains I didn't recognize.
Voices came from the next room. Russian. Low. Discussing something that made one tone go sharp and the others go quiet. Another voice came over the air. Finn’s.
I sat up. The sheet pooled around my waist. My body felt like someone had disassembled me and put me back together in a slightly different order.
On the coffee table by the bed was an empty champagne flute, a plate with fruit rinds, and a dossier.
The crest on the folder stopped my heart.
Finn's crest.
The Irish mob.
Then it came crashing back. They were his business partners. They'd been at his table. They were working with him. And I'd just spent two days in their bed.
Was he in the room next door? Or on the loudspeak on the phone?
I didn't think. I moved. I grabbed my clothes and I was out the secondary door before the Russian voices in the next room could pause long enough to hear the lock click.
The staircase was cold concrete and led to an alley that spat me out into a Prague morning.
I stood with my back to the wall. I had a choice. Go to my room or run. I reached into my pocket for my hotel card and that was when I found a shiny black credit card.
I smiled as I ran to jump onto the bus.
19
Artem
