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She shouldn’t have cared. Her life would be simpler without Lyon in it. She had plenty of money. She could move back into her father’s home, find something meaningful to do with her life, something that had nothing to do with the bratva.
She would be okay. She would be fine.
So why did the thought of something happening to Lyon make her heart feel like a block of ice in her chest? Why did the thought of a quiet life without him leave her feeling hollow?
She was sick. That was the only explanation.
And yet it was true. She’d already lost her father. She didn’t want to lose Lyon too.
She could tell herself it was because she’d promised her father a legacy in the bratva, that Lyon was the closest thing to an ally in the organization. Maybe that was even true.
But it wasn’t the whole truth.
She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Lyon was in danger, a newly crowned pakhan who surely had enemies within the organization and was under threat from Musa. It was perfectly reasonable that they should work as a united front. They couldn’t afford to be divided, and she felt a surge of anger that he’d brought her back to Chicago under such adversarial conditions.
Hadn’t he known that if he needed her help, all he had to do was ask? Two weeks earlier, when she’d been pining for him on the island, she would have done anything for him.
The elevator dinged and she turned to face it. Her heartbeat picked up its pace as Lyon stepped into the foyer. He didn’t see her at first, and she watched as he set his keycard on the console table near the elevator.
He made his way toward her, slowing when he realized she was in the living room, and she registered surprise at his uncharacteristically disheveled appearance.
He clearly hadn’t been home since their dinner the night before. He was missing his jacket, and his tie hung loosely around his neck. His dark hair was askew, his face pale, dark circles shadowing his eyes.
Concern edged out her anger. She had to resist the urge to go to him, run her hands through his hair, pull him into the bathroom, put him in the shower, order him food, send him to bed.
She needed to be smart, take advantage of the fact that he was clearly exhausted.
“Why didn’t you tell me Musa tried to kill you?” she asked.
He stopped a few feet away, on the other side of the sofas that separated them. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “It was irrelevant to our… relationship.”
She shook her head. “Even if you take away everything that was between us in the fall, our relationship was founded on a mutual investment in the ruling of the bratva. Musa’s attempt on your life is surely material to that investment.”
“Is that what we’re talking about?” he asked, his eyes drilling into hers. “Your investment?”
She hesitated. Part of her wanted to hurt him, to kick him while he was down. That’s what he’d done to her.
But that wasn’t getting them anywhere.
“Partly,” she said. “And also… whatever has happened between us, whatever mistakes we’ve made, I don’t want anything to happen to you.” The admission felt dangerous. She held her breath, wondering if he would spit in the face of her concern.
“What do you want from me, Kira?” The question sounded strangely resigned, not at all like the Lion.
She swallowed. “I want to be your partner in some capacity, in whatever capacity you’ll allow.”
She told herself it wasn’t a lie. Her best chance of escape lay in her ability to secure Lyon’s leadership of the bratva. Once he was truly king, once his adversaries had been cowed, they could discuss the dissolution of their arrangement. That moment would come about more quickly if they worked together.
“Can we…” She drew in a breath. “Can we just talk about it? About the bratva at least?”
He took so long to reply, she wondered if he’d heard the question.
“Be ready in fifteen minutes,” he said, heading for the bedroom. “I need to change.”
21
He took a shower and put on clean jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt.
And all the while, his mind was screaming a warning.
