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“Saving your life.”
Twelve
Anteros reached across and brushed a bit of broken glass from Frankie's cheek. She flinched but stilled, and he continued to rub the dirt and debris from her face. She watched him warily.
“Are you all right?” he asked. He pulled back his thumb, hovering above her cheek even though there was nothing left for him to swipe away.
“I didn’t get shot.” She swallowed. “I don’t think…I don’t think anything else hit me.” That wasn’t what he meant, but he wasn’t about to clarify. Instead he nodded and sat back.
Nikolai pulled to a stop at the docks. There would be no mourning today—not that there would have been much for Giovani anyway, but the pretense had been shattered. Anteros ran a hand through his hair. He would meet with the Wolves, who would already have their own ideas as to who’d orchestrated the assault. Rhys too. The Council would want to meet with him, but he would put that off as long as possible.
When Nikolai opened the door, he got out.
“Where are you going?” Frankie gripped his forearm. He stared at her fingers, dusted with dirt, the radiant skin beneath was like a sunflower hidden beneath earth. She crushed the fabric of his suit as he attempted to leave. Her eyes were wide, pleading.
His voice was hoarse when he responded, “Nikolai will take you back to the penthouse.”
“Okay.” Her voice didn’t waver and she looked away. It was the same callous strength he’d come to expect from her over the short time they’d spent together. Anteros expected her to go inside herself, to harden to petrified wood and quickly calcify all that she was so that nothing—especially him—could get to her, but still she didn’t release her hold of his arm. Anteros waited, but Frankie looked gone, her eyes misted. It was like she didn’t even notice him though her fist still clasped his suit.
Anteros knelt, Gucci shoes smashing the snow. He had every intent to rip her arm off him, tell Nikolai to drive away, and go finish business.
Instead he placed his own hand over hers and said, “Come.”
The discomfort was palpable. The minute Anteros entered the building with Frankie in tow, everyone closed up. His Wolves and Rhys watched si
lently as Anteros walked through the office. He knew what they were thinking; it was what they had been thinking yesterday at the warehouse, even if Crazy A was the only one to say it aloud.
“Giovani is dead,” Anteros said, addressing the Wolves as snow flurried around them. “The Council is distracted, which means plans for Emilio will go smoother than expected.”
“Is she in the car?” Crazy A asked, interrupting him. “Did you bring her tonight?’
Anteros glared. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Pretty Boy, Little O, and Big O shifted.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Crazy A growled. “Forget The Council, the bitch in that car is going to ruin everything, just like the delivery.” Anteros had been purposely putting space between himself and Frankie for the past few days. It was less than a week before Emilio was to be put in place, and he couldn’t afford any distractions like at the dinner. When she’d shown up at his office, begging for her friend, somehow all of that was forgotten.
“I know what the fuck I’m doing,” Anteros said, turning to walk back to the car.
Anteros took a seat behind his desk, noting that Crazy A was absent. Not showing up to a meeting without warning was something none of the Wolves had ever done before. It was a huge disrespect.
“Who is responsible?” Anteros asked, pushing Crazy A to the back of his mind. Frankie sat herself on the ratty couch by the window, staring out to where ice dotted the Hudson. Only the sharp curve of her cheekbones and jaw could be seen from beneath her hat. The tall black thing was entirely too extravagant juxtaposed against the fogged warehouse window, but it was what the funeral had called for. She turned and he caught a glimpse of her eye, just as quickly it disappeared beneath layers of matte and shiny fabric when she returned her gaze to the window.
She looked like a Victorian lady fallen through time. The collar of her ebony dress went up to where her throat betrayed her unease with large gulps and was tied with a black satin bow that fell to her rising breast. The bow was held together with a diamond broach, and soft velvet fell to the hands she pressed against the windowpane and kept falling beyond the knees she crossed, to her ankles.
Elegant, but beyond that, bold.
He remembered seeing her for the first time before the funeral. Something had occurred to him: if he kept dressing her like a queen, people wouldn’t question her ascension. He shook the thought quickly; the soft velvet had bunched just as easily as any fabric. He’d been able to grip it, pull it up, and do whatever he wanted to the girl beneath, just as he had with all the other dresses she wore.
“Who is responsible for this?” Anteros asked again. Everyone in the office exchanged looks. Since the night Anteros had missed the delivery with The Institute things had been strained. “Well?” Anteros repeated.
Rhys was the first to speak up. He looked to Frankie then back to the Beast. “I think you’d prefer we discussed this in private.”
After Frankie had been escorted out, Anteros turned to them, impatience on his face. None of them had taken a seat except for Little O who lounged in the chair. Standing uncomfortably, arms folded, feet wide, they watched him, waiting.
“What?” Anteros snapped.
Pretty Boy ran his fingers through perfectly coiffed hair, eyes darting to the men in the room. There was obviously something on their minds. He could see it pressing against their lips, words they wanted to say but were keeping inside. Like bees inside their mouths, the buzz was loud against his ears, and the pain of keeping it inside was palpable.
Rhys shifted. Big O looked to Pretty Boy. They still stood, which was out of the norm.
