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She didn’t run, she just laid on the ground, watching him with those big, fearful cornflower eyes. The A was too bold against her chest—a fact that used to turn him inside out but now just made him hollow. Fuck. That’s why Nikolai hadn’t cared about the F—the fucker had planned it. Bending down, he roughly gripped the fabric and forced her to hold it to her chest. The Wolves would wonder about it.
I don’t want a bandage. I want to bleed your name.
He stood back to his feet instantly, assaulted by the memory of that night. Dammit, Frankie was even beautiful when she cried. Her lips got puffy, eyes bright and shiny, lashes dewy. If it were any other situation, he would have made a mental note to fuck her until she cried so he could see those tears in bed where they belonged. He groaned and rubbed his forehead, refocusing his attention anywhere else.
His eyes landed on the stained glass phoenix. As he followed the fiery wings curving toward the roof, Anteros wondered if this was a setup, if Frankie was playing him with her tears, trying to get him and the Wolves all in one place.
“You’re not wearing the necklace,” he said, noticing her bare neck. His voice was raw with emotion he couldn’t hide. It was pointless mentioning it—she’d only worn it to worm her way into his heart. Yet for some reason, he had to say it aloud, had to hear the words for himself to cement the betrayal as real.
Her hand went to her throat, eyes widening. “That’s because—” Her words were cut off by the creak of the doors opening. Light streamed into the church, yellow and cold with the air outside. It illuminated her body in a spotlight and she looked too fucking angelic.
“I win the bet!” Pretty Boy exclaimed, thrusting both doors open. Anteros ground his jaw, forcing himself to look at the Wolves making their way up the aisle and not Frankie on the floor, bathed in celestial light.
When Crazy A reached them, he silently picked Frankie up by the arm, dragging her down the aisle. She craned her head, eyes locking with his as she disappeared out the doors.
“Little O bet you would kill her before we got here,” Pretty Boy explained, coming to stand next to Anteros. “He’s got the engine running. You coming?” Anteros nodded but didn’t follow when Pretty Boy left after Crazy A.
When the place had emptied, Anteros turned again to the phoenix. A few minutes passed in silence as he studied the intricate glass carving. When he heard the door creak open again and footsteps approach, he didn’t turn around.
“You’ll want to watch this,” Crazy A said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I can promise you’ll never forget it.” Anteros said nothing, and slowly Crazy A removed his hand. His footfalls grew quieter, the door creaked open then shut.
Focusing on the flames engulfing the phoenix, Anteros wondered if he’d done the right thing.
After shoving Frankie into the Escalade’s trunk, they brought her to the docks and carried her to the precipice of the pier. Ice crawled along the half-frozen Hudson and multicolored shipping crates dotted the docks behind them. The crates were usually filled with people being shipped to The Institute, but since the war shipments had been sporadic. It was currently deserted—the perfect place to kill and drop a body.
But Anteros couldn’t fucking do it.
He couldn’t pull the trigger.
“Everything all right, Boss?” Pretty Boy asked. No, he was a goddamn pussy. His soul had been fragmented but instead of getting revenge on the woman who’d torn it, he was watching the shreds blow in the wind like a tattered white flag.
Anteros couldn’t even ride in the same goddamn car as her. He’d had to follow in his McLaren, but not before watching them close the trunk on her. Frankie’s eyes had been locked with his all the way until the door shut on her head. Once again, though the pistol obscured half her face, her blue eyes bore into him.
“Just savoring the experience,” Anteros lied. “Been a long time coming.” Pretty Boy nodded, accepting the explanation. Frankie was spread eagle between him and Little O, their fingers biting the skin just below her shoulders. The tank he’d given her was precariously close to exposing the A, and a dangerous part of him wished it would slip, wished he could see it one last time. She mouthed something to him, but he didn’t catch it.
The sun was setting, outlining Frankie in a fiery vermillion hue. The wooden pier was covered with a dusting of snow, tinted orange by the sunset. Cinderblocks and rope sat next to Frankie’s feet—fucking cinderblocks so she would sink into the water and never return. Anteros rubbed the hand with the gun to his forehead. Goddamn, how had he ended up here?
With an exhale, Anteros lowered the gun and rubbed it on his thigh, wind biting at his exposed fingers.
“You do it.” Anteros turned to Crazy A beside him, putting his Glock back in his holster. Crazy A’s stare narrowed, but he unfolded his arms and pulled his gun out without a word. In seconds he had it pointed at Frankie’s head. Seeing the Wolf’s gun on her ripped Anteros apart. Even after all the betrayal, he wanted to save her.
He was so fucked.
“Please,” Frankie said, tears making her eyes shine. “Please just give me a chance to explain.”
“Dogs should really learn when to speak,” Crazy A commented.
“Fuck you.” Her voice cracked, a sob breaking free when she said you. Her eyes never strayed from Anteros.
“Not my type,” Crazy A responded without looking at her. Frankie gnawed on her bottom lip as if trying to keep the rest of her tears inside, but they streamed down her face anyway, clear rivers that were too fucking vivid. If Anteros had to watch another minute he was going to run, tug her from Little O and Pretty Boy’s grasp, throw her over his shoulder, and get her to safety—betrayal be damned.
“I’ll go grab some cinderblocks,” Anteros said, voice hoarse.
“We already got blocks,” Pretty Boy replied, nonplussed, but Anteros was already turning toward his McLaren.
“Anteros wait!” Frankie called out, and he stilled.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Pretty Boy asked. “Did Lucia tell you to call him that?”
