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Tristan didn’t want to retreat. He swung out, but Dixon dodged. Too much time sparring with one another had left them practiced in the other’s habits, and Lila soon realized why Dixon stressed the things he did with her, why he kept prodding her to quickness.
This wasn’t a sparring session. It might have started slow, but it quickly developed into something altogether different. It was a real street fight, with pumping fists and turned-off brains, with hot blood and anger coursing throughout both men’s bodies.
Dixon’s punches snapped back and forth, like a striking snake. They had to, for Tristan outweighed him slightly.
Tristan planted a fist into Dixon’s jaw.
Or at least he tried. Dixon ducked to avoid it, and punched his brother in the gut.
Tristan turned his abdomen at the last moment, his brother’s blow glancing off his belly. He grabbed Dixon’s neck, throwing Dixon off balance.
But Dixon didn’t fall.
Tristan did. The tranq rode on a puff of air, landing on his cheek due to her shaking hands, a little speck of black near his jaw. He grimaced, his eyes widening at Lila’s drawn gun, betrayal etched in every crinkle and line on his face.
Dixon lunged, guiding his brother to the ground.
Katia’s mouth hung open, and she knelt upon the floor beside her lover.
Tristan’s hands slapped against the wood, his lips trying to form a few slurred words before they stopped altogether.
Lila holstered her tranq. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She hitched the strap of her satchel higher on her shoulder, turned quickly, and threw open the apartment door, fleeing quickly down the corridor.
Dixon shouted her name, the word scrambled and pronounced without a tongue. It was a call, a moan that barely resolved in her ears.
It did not reach her.
Chapter 24
Lila parked her black Cruz sedan in front of a run-down apartment complex a kilometer from Randolph General. The white trim had been painted with a coat of grime. Weeds peeked from cracks in the sidewalks. A group of men in the parking lot passed a paper bag back and forth, folding down the top to drink. Their hollow laughter rang out into the night, floundering when Lila slammed her door and marched toward one of the buildings.
A dog barked as she jogged upstairs.
She rapped upon the door of a third-floor apartment, blowing into her hands for warmth.
Inside, claws scratched at the door. The knob jiggled. Helen, in baggy gray sweats and an even baggier robe, cocked her head and stared at Lila expectantly. Beside her, a black Labrador panted, his collar and tags tinkling as he sneezed and wagged his tail.
“Lila?” Helen said, looking down at her own clothes.
Lila licked her lips. How like her mother she’d become, imposing on people unexpectedly, expecting them to do her bidding whenever she needed something. She wasn’t even an heir anymore.
“I’m sorry, doctor. This was rude of me. I shouldn’t have come over here this late.” She turned around and dashed toward the stairs.
“Come back,” Helen called out before she’d reached the first step. “You came here for a reason, didn’t you?”
Lila gripped the railing, nodding.
“It’s cold. Come inside before my ears freeze off. Look at Scout. Even he is giving up on us, the big baby.”
Sure enough, the Labrador had retreated farther into the apartment.
Lila wiped her boots on the mat and stepped inside, a blast of warmth carrying away the chill on her cheeks. The apartment had been decorated only by need, for the doctor had not bought any furniture she did not intend to use. As such, it only contained a gray leather couch and a glass coffee table. The darkly stained hardwood floors contained a small amount of dust and dog hair in the corners.
If Lila didn’t return to the Randolph estate, then she’d have a similar apartment soon.
Helen took Lila’s coat and hung it on the rack next to the door, the gray leather contrasting with the crimson wool beside it. The doctor was still a Randolph, whether she lived in the family’s compound or not.
She was no exile, she was just not important enough to bother.
