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d, “Make sure you get all the blood off. You look like shit.” A few minutes passed in silence, the only sound the hiss of shower and water pelting the tile. Then Crazy A spoke again. “If I know you, you probably planned to get captured.” Crazy A leaned against the shower entryway, gun still pointed at Anteros. “Probably thought you could take Lucia and Nikolai unaware.” Anteros didn’t say a thing, gritting his teeth, rubbing the dirt and blood off his skin. “It’s not a terrible plan. That might have worked. Too bad your plan didn’t account for the walking dead.”
Anteros took a little longer scrubbing than he normally would have, trying to rework the plan. Crazy A was right—they never could have anticipated him. Suddenly the water stopped.
“Stop stalling and get the fuck out,” Crazy A barked. Anteros stepped out of the shower, wet feet slipping and hair dripping on the tile. One question had poked his gut since Crazy A appeared on the balcony.
“Wondering how I’m alive?” Crazy A asked.
“Naturally.”
“You didn’t drag the river. You didn’t check your work. That bullet wasn’t lethal. It’s not how I’m alive, it’s why you let me live, but we both know the answer to that.” Crazy A grinned caustically. Once upon a time, Anteros would have dragged the river to find all the bodies, would have delivered bullets into each head to make sure they were dead, but Frankie had been in that river, drowning. Just the memory had his blood itching.
Crazy A pushed him into the other room, giving him no time to dry off. Drops of water slid from his body, seeping into the carpet. Even knowing Crazy A lived, he wasn’t sure what he would do if he could go back in time. If he hadn’t done exactly as he had, Frankie would have died.
It was a catch 22, a no-win situation.
“Make sure you put on the tux,” Crazy A said. “Tonight is special. It’s the most important night of your life.” A crooked, malicious grin contorted Crazy A’s cheeks. Anteros pulled out the first tuxedo he saw, slowly slipping into the fabric.
“If I know you,” Anteros said, repeating the words Crazy A had said as he put one foot into the tuxedo pants, gripping the silky material. “You’ve got something else planned, something Lucia and Nikolai have no idea about.” Hair still damp from the shower, he pushed it out of his face, waiting for a response. He wondered what was happening with Frankie, wondered what they were making her wear.
“Lucia just wants her fucking princess.” He bit the word off like unripe, bitter fruit. “Nikolai is so transparent it’s embarrassing. The only one who didn’t see that coming was you.” Anteros buttoned up a white dress shirt, staying silent. The fabric stuck to him along the lines of his muscles. “But you were distracted,” Crazy A finished, his last word sharp and acrid.
Anteros finished getting dressed in silence. He didn’t ignore the glare Crazy A gave him or the bitter words, he just refused to play into them. When his shoes were tied, he turned, ready for whatever was next.
With a gun to Anteros’s back, Crazy A marched him down the hallway back to the foyer.
“I’m not wearing this!” Frankie’s voice stopped him in his tracks. It carried out of her room, distressed. “These dresses are like my own personal dead canaries. Someone puts one on me, I should just run the fuck out of the mine.” The door was open but he couldn’t see Frankie, so she must have been in the closet. He couldn’t see Lucia either. He could see Nikolai. Leaning against the vintage dresser, arms folded, looking in the direction of the closet with an oily smile on his face.
Another reason to kill him.
“Sounds like your bitch might be dead before we even get to the fun stuff,” Crazy A mused. “You never did teach her when not to speak. Should’ve bought her a muzzle.” Anteros could practically feel the bones of his jaw grinding. One of the best things about Frankie was her voice, her tenacity, yet he knew it could get her into trouble.
Crazy A pressed the barrel deeper into his back. It twisted the fabric of his jacket and the rounded head bruised his skin, telling him to move. The distress in Frankie’s voice had him cemented, though.
“I had plans for you both,” Crazy A said, “but I’m flexible. I don’t mind shooting you lovebirds in the head right now.” Though it was like tearing the soles of his flesh from the floor, Anteros continued walking. He listened the entire way for Frankie, but he didn’t hear anything else.
In the foyer, Anteros got back to his knees, arms behind his back. Crazy A sat on the shoulder of the couch, one leg up, an arm draped over that leg. The gun was pointed lazily, but Anteros knew better than to think Crazy A was anything but vigilant. The man’s bitter arrogance wasn’t from laziness, but because he didn’t fear death. That kind of apathy didn’t make men easier to kill, it made their actions impossible to predict.
“Man, how the mighty have fallen,” Crazy A said. “Soon the Beast will be dead, and who could have predicted love would be your undoing? I know I never would have. All those years ago, you made it perfectly clear love has no place in this world.” Anteros lowered his head, focusing on the hardwood floor. He could faintly see the outline of his face. “You were right you know,” Crazy A continued, and Anteros lifted his head to see the Wolf raise his arms above him in a stretch. “Love has no place in this world.”
His meaning was obvious.
Soon Anteros’s love would be gone too.
As much as his blood raged to destroy Crazy A, the reason Anteros was on his knees was because Crazy A had already been destroyed—by him.
“I’m sorry, Alcide,” Anteros said. Crazy A jumped off the edge of the couch like he’d been burned.
“Your mind games won’t work,” Crazy A snapped.
“It’s not a game,” Anteros said. “I was wrong. I should never have made you kill him.” Crazy A stumbled backward until he was at the edge of the stairs. He ran the gun through his hair, looked left and right, then back at Anteros. The wild, fearful edge in his eyes hardened.
“That bitch ruined you,” he hissed. “You don’t even have the guts to stick by your decisions. You’re weak. You’re crippled. You’re fucking pathetic.” Crazy A closed the distance he’d just created until he was only inches away, gun pointed straight at Anteros’s temple.
“It’s not weakness to admit when you’re wrong,” Anteros replied, voice lowering to a menacing decibel. “I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.” He leaned into the gun, pressing his forehead to the barrel. The cold metal bruised the thin skin on his forehead. “I won’t be blinded by my mistakes,” Anteros continued. He had to say this, so at least if he died, the truth would be out. “I won’t walk around making the same error over and over again because I’m too fucking prideful to admit when I’ve been wrong. I was wrong, Alcide.” The gun at his temple trembled. Crazy A’s brows creased, his lips pursed. His eyes twitched like he didn’t know what the fuck was happening, then all at once he stepped off, pulling the gun away.
“Nice fucking try,” Crazy A said. He went to the edge of the couch once more, but no longer sat lazily. The gun was still pointed at Anteros, but his gaze was on the wall, stare far off.
It was only a few minutes later that Frankie, Nikolai, and Lucia reappeared, Frankie now dressed for a white tie affair like him. The left side of her gown was a strapless, scarlet satin. The right was sheer with glimmering ruby beads twisting from the neck down to the train, like bejeweled flames. A dangerous slit exposed her thigh.
