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“You babble when you’re nervous,” he says, taking a step back.
“Liam,” I groan as the numbers begin to slow.
“Oh, say that again.” He stares intently at the elevator doors. “I like the sound of my name on your lips.”
“Stop flirting with me. At least wait until we’re not about to die.”
The elevator reaches our floor and stops. Then makes a very pleasant ding.
“Run,” he says, turning and dragging me the opposite direction.
I glance over my shoulder as I sprint after him. The doors slide open to reveal five men, all of them enormous and packed into the elevator like sardines. They spill out, tangling with each other briefly. “Stop!” one shouts as they start to chase.
“This way,” Liam says, flinging me around a corner. I careen, hit a wall, keep going.
“My fucking foot,” I gasp as the pain flares up. “I really need some goddamn shoes!”
“No time,” he says through gritted teeth. He’s going flat out now, and I’m barely keeping up. Doors flit past, and if someone steps from their room, we’ll smash right into them.
“Crowley! Rostova!” The thugs behind us start shouting. “Stop them! Thieves!”
“Fuckers,” Liam growls. “This way, down here.” We reach the end of the hall and he shoves open an unmarked door leading into a concrete-lined staircase.
“Fuck,” I gasp, panting for air as we throw ourselves down. I barely stay on my feet and keep running into the walls at the bottom of each flight. “Oh, fuck, Liam.”
Above us, the door to our floor opens. “Got you now,” the lead thug says, a man that looks like a thumb.
“Don’t, you fucking idiot,” another voice shouts with an edge of panic, then a gunshot rings out.
It’s so loud I scream in surprise, throwing my hands over my ears. The echo in the stairwell magnifies the sound tenfold. Everything’s ringing and I nearly fall on my face, and the only reason I don’t go tumbling down the concrete steps is Liam sweeping me up into his arms.
He says something, but I can’t hear him. There’s the muffled sound of shouting behind us. Liam runs on, carrying me now like a bride being ushered over the threshold of her home. I’m shocked at his strength, at the solidity of his chest and his arms, and how fast he can move now that he’s not trying to let me keep pace.
We fly down the stairs. It’s like he’s out of control and only just keeping on his feet. I lean against him, holding on tightly and supporting as much of my weight as I can. Sweat’s dripping down his forehead, his face creased in effort and concentration as we reach the bottom, and he bursts out another door.
Into blinding sunlight.
“Hold on,” he says and I’m surprised I can hear him. “Don’t let go.”
“I won’t.” I stare at his face, his handsome face, marveling at his power and his intensity. He springs around the side of the building, barrels through the parking lot, and finds his car.
“I can get in myself,” I say before he shoves me in like luggage.
“Don’t look back,” he says as I buckle myself into the passenger seat. He starts the engine and peels out, driving fast to the exit.
I make the mistake of not listening.
Six men stand staring at us. Five of them are bent over, breathing hard. One punches another, the thumb-guy, right in the shoulder. They’re arguing about something.
But I don’t care about any of them.
Only the sixth one matters. The one that wasn’t in the hotel chasing after us and must’ve been waiting in the parking lot.
It’s my father, still dressed for a wedding.
Chapter 7
Alisa
The next hotel room isn’t as nice as the first. “Best we can do for now,” Liam says, unlocking the door to a dingy motel suite. We’ve got the corner spot, furthest from the parking lot. There’s a sitting room with a separate bedroom, but it’s all rundown and ugly. “Rustik won’t come looking for me here.”
“I suspect Rustik’s familiar with this side of town.” We’re in a bad neighborhood, one of the worst in Portland, but there are dispensaries even in this area. Which means the Aslan Bratva’s got contacts and control.
“He thinks I’m a fancy Crowley, like I’m afraid to get my hands dirty.” Liam strips off his jacket, tossing it aside. “He’s very wrong about that.” A phone appears in his hands. He unbuttons his shirt without looking at me. “I have some calls to make.”
“Who?” I ask, voice shaking. I keep thinking about the gunshot in the stairwell and my father standing with the thugs that tried to kill me.
Has it really gotten so bad?
“We need clothes. You need shoes.” He glances down at my feet then back up, expression grim. “And I need muscle.”
“I thought your family didn’t know you were doing this.”
“I have my own resources. Enough for us to survive this situation, at least. But yes, for an actual war, I’ll need more. A lot more. Plus, political contacts.” He turns to me and I stare at his muscular chest and abs. “Don’t go anywhere. Don’t leave this room, no matter what. I can’t protect you if you decide to do something stupid. I’ll be in there.” He disappears into the bedroom area, shutting the door behind him.
