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I turn my hand over in the cuff, and she puts hers in it.
“Your courtroom,” I say. “My streets.”
“Deal.”
“Now,” she says. “Tommy Brennan’s awake.”
I sit up.
“They moved him out of the ICU yesterday. He’s talking. And here’s what we know. Four years after he helped put you away, the week somebody starts poking at his story, a car breaks both his legs. He’s had eleven days in a bed to think about who did that to him.” She smiles, and it’s all teeth. Predatory. Fucking magnificent. “Somebody already scared him for us, baby. And scared witnesses talk. All I have to do is walk in with a nice, legal offer and listen to him fucking sing.”
She’s holding my hand and smiling at me.
“There are two men on his door,” I tell her. “Mine.”
The smile goes. Her hand tightens.
“To do what?”
“To keep him breathing. Somebody tried for him once, and it wasn’t me. I wanted to know what he’d say if he lived.” I hold her eyes. “They haven’t spoken to him. He thinks they’re hospital security. I’m telling you because you’d have walked in there and seen them, and because I said I’d never lie to you.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. I watch her turn my words over in her head.
“They stay on the door,” she finally says. “If someone wants him dead, I’d rather he was guarded by people who are good at it. But they don’t say one word to him, Dec. Not their names, not yours, not good fucking morning. And when I go in, they wait at the far end of the hall where he can’t see them. If Tommy Brennan tells me anything, it’s because he chose to.”
I nod.
“I mean it.”
She narrows her eyes at me. Then she leans over, camera and all, and kisses me. Quick and hard, with her fist in the front of my jumpsuit.
“That’s for calling Rian,” she says against my mouth.
Then she’s up, gathering her files, all business. At the door she looks back over her shoulder and blows me a fucking kiss.
She’s gone before I stop laughing. I sit there chained to a steel table, grinning at a closed door like a fucking idiot, with my wolf purring so loud I’m surprised the guards don’t bolt in.
Ten
Zahra
What do you wear to meet three mobsters? I’ve been standing in my closet in my bra and panties for twenty minutes. I have outfits for a bench trial, jury trial, deposition, partner lunch, and even a funeral. I do not have an outfit for hi, I’m the omega your brother married in prison a month ago, please don’t hate me.
This was my idea, by the way. That’s the worst part! Section twelve also has a family visitation provision for bonded mates, and I filed for it because Declan hasn’t been in a room with all three of his brothers at once in fucking years, and I thought it would be nice. I was so proud of myself. It wasn’t until the approval came through that it hit me I’d have to be there.
I finally decide on a blue wrap dress. Three-quarter sleeves, V-neck, tied at the waist, skirt to the knee. It makes my waist look tiny and my boobs fantastic. If I’m going down, at least I’m going down cute. Gold jewelry. Nude heels. Hair out, big and soft. Red lips.
And I leave the neckline of my dress with Declan’s bite showing above it.
* * *
The family room is nicer than I expected. It looks like a small cafeteria. With round tables bolted to the floor, plastic chairs, vending machines, a play corner with a bin of toys that makes my heart hurt. Guards stand along the walls. There’s one by the far door who keeps looking at me, a thick-necked guy with small eyes and a little smirk, and I don’t like it one bit.
Then they bring Declan in, and I forget everything else.
No chains… no cuffs, no waist chain, nothing. Just my husband in his orange jumpsuit, walking across a room toward me like a free man, and oh my God, he moves like the magnificent beast he is. Like he’s never once had to get out of anybody’s way. Every head in the room turns. A woman two tables over actually stops talking mid-sentence.
He doesn’t look at any of them. He’s looking at me. At my dress. His eyes do a slow drag from my heels to my hair, and they’re sparking gold by the time he gets to my face.
