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I frown. “Okay, A, you’re high if you think you’re going out clubbing. You’re still healing. And B, if I even had any, I’d send my girlfriends on dates with Jeffery Dahmer before you.”
He barks out a laugh. “First of all,ouch. Second of all, Dahmer fucked and killed dudes. So your non-existent girlfriends would be fine. That said, they’d still be unequivocallyfinerwith me.”
“Still a moot point, because I don’t have?—”
“I know Ulkan Gacaferi is dead, Freya. I also heard that shit-stain Valon is, too.”
Damian’s never known the full story of Anni’s and my history with Valon. If he did, I’m pretty sure he’d have hunted Valon down and ripped his head off.
But Valon was a dangerous, well-guarded piece of shit, and Damian could easily have gotten himself killed in the process of beheading that monster. Plus, Annika and I both wanted to keep that pastinthe past.
But his words give me pause. I mean, he’s got a point. The nightmares hounding Annika and me are both dead. My shouldersdofeel lighter. Maybe it is an occasion to go out and celebrate?
And to try and shake Mal from your head.
That one makes me scowl. It’s also the one that sticks. Maybe going out, having some drinks, and dancing until my head spins is the perfect way to try and forget about him.
I clear my throat. “Damian, you’re still healing?—”
“I wasn’t asking permission, Frey. I wanted to see if you wanted to join me.”
I smirk. “Why do I feel like I’m going to be your chaperone?” I make a face. “Or…wing-woman?”
He snickers. “No idea what you’re talking about. I’m picking you up in an hour. Be ready.”
The music pulsesin the air, the bass thudding deep in my chest as I take another sip of my cocktail. I glance over at Damian sitting across from me in the booth, his usual cocky grin on full display as he talks to the group we came with.
I’mfine going out to a quiet—or even loud—bar alone. But Damian is Bratva royalty, and royalty never goes out alone.
Anddefinitelynot without making a splash.
We’re atAchtung, an ultra-chic, ultra “scene”, ultraloudclub in Soho full of models, finance types, and a who’s-who of young, rich New York.
Supposedly. I haven’t the slightest clue who those people are, but Damian at least travels on the periphery of those circles.
But that’s pretty much who we’re out with: a handful of bored, drugged-up fashion models, two guys who look like they only exist to sell the fashion models coke, and a couple of higher-upavtoritetsin the Nikolayev Bratva dressed like cliché Russian mobsters.
Bratva royallyalsodoesn’t go out without protection. We’re joined by about ten of Damian’s soldiers, including—much to my chagrin, since he keeps staring at me—Dimitri.
As I’m looking out over the dance floor, I have the misfortune to catch Dimitri’s eye. He nods his chin at me, grinning what I’m sure he hopes is his most winning, charming smile. I flasha weird face and an even weirder dance move his way before pulling my gaze to Damian.
I scowl as I watch him toss back the drink in his hand like there’s no tomorrow.
“You’re supposed to be taking it easy,” I murmur, leaning in close so only he can hear.
Damian shoots me a lopsided grin, his violet eyes glinting under the flashing club lights. “Relax. It was just a bullet, Frey. Not a lobotomy or open-heart surgery.”
I glare at him. “They literallydidoperate on your heart, dumbass.”
“It would seem I’m invincible, then,” he smirks back.
I roll my eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at my lips. That’s Damian for you—always brushing off the seriousness of everything.
“Still,” I say, my tone firm, “you’renotbulletproof?—”
“The fuck I’m not,” he grins before sighing. “Frey, please, just enjoy yourself for once. You can even go dance with someone and I won’t pull the overprotective brother card.”
“Really?”
