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“No fucking shit, but what choice do I have?” I ask him, and we stare at each other for a few silent beats.
He nods curtly and spins, pulling his phone out, and I head toward my room.
I take out my bag and throw some clothes from my drawers in it, and then I stalk to the bathroom. I scrape my toiletries together into a smaller bag and then pause when I look in the mirror. The vein in my temple is pounding, my under-eye bags are purple, and I look like I need a good night’s sleep.
“Nothing a glass of scotch can’t cure,” I tell myself before pushing off the vanity and back into my room. I don’t need to look in mirrors anymore to know I look and feel like shit.
“No fucking rest for the weary,” I tell the empty room, feeling a bit crazy.
I pull my stash of firearms from the closet, choosing two handguns and my holster. I put it on underneath my suit jacket and zip up my bag.
I’m ready.
15
WRYN
Ipeer out the window as the plane takes off, the cushiony seat hugging me. I’ve never been on a private plane before. This is actually only the second plane I’ve ever been on, and I still find it fascinating.
The ground races by, the buildings around us become smaller, and the vehicles on the ground look like Matchbox cars as we climb higher into the air. I feel weightless for a moment, and I smile before remembering what we are doing. Connor called these people our enemies. And we are headed to visit them.
“Do you have a plan for when we get there?” I ask him.
He’s seated across the fancy table from me, staring out his own window. It’s one of the few times I haven’t seen him busy with his phone or poring over a pile of papers. He looks tense, his fingers drumming on one knee, jaw flexing.
“We bring Lilliana home,” he says.
I pull my lips to one side, not sure he knows what he’s talking about. “What about Sylvia?”
“I don’t give a damn about Sylvia,” he says, still not looking at me.
“I hear what you are saying,” I say, trying to tread carefully but I think he believes this will be an easier feat than it’s going to be. “But have you thought that maybe Lilliana wanted to go with her mom?”
Connor turns his head then, his eyes meeting mine, and I know I shouldn’t have even asked. The anger he’s expressing deep in his brown eyes has me sinking into my chair in case he can shoot death beams from them or something.
“Lilliana is young. She doesn’t know what’s good for her.”
“And you do?”
Boy, I really want him to murder me while in the air, don’t I? It would bring new meaning to the Mile-High Club.
“I think I know her better than you do.”
“She seemed pretty excited to be going when she told me about it.”
“And if you had come and told me, none of this would have happened,” Connor says, seething.
I lean forward in my chair, my ass sliding on the soft cream leather as I clench the armrests.
“I’m not your messenger girl,” I tell him, my teeth gritting equally as hard as his.
“When you are in this family, you answer to me,” Connor snarls, and I can’t help but let a sardonic chuckle escape from my throat. “What?” he asks, glaring.
I know I should probably keep my mouth shut, but instead, I say, “I’m not in your family … yet. And I can pull out anytime I want to.”
“Can you?” he asks, leaning forward, his lips pulling back in a grin that doesn’t spread any warmth over me.
“Yes,” I say, sporting confidence I don’t feel as I cross my arms across my chest and nod, as if that were the final word.
