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Cillian shakes his head and softens his tone—just a fraction, but it’s noticeable. “You’re innocent. Like I used to be.”
And with, he turns on his boots and stomps out of the garden.
Leaving me with nothing but weak knees and no escape plan.
Lorcan
The end is coming.
Sinking into the deep seat of my Herman Miller, I drag my fingers over my jaw. Both are bruised and aching, like every other muscle and joint in my body.
I lean my head against the chair’s headrest, taking the weight off my shoulders. When I close my eyes, Poppy’s face appears. Emerald eyes sparkling like precious gems, copper hair glistening like precious metal.
The end is coming, I know that. What I don’t know is what comes after the end.
I have to plan accordingly.
My fingers twitch towards my drink. Only it’s not there, because I’ve been sober for seven days. My entire whiskey cabinet is cleaned out to help me avoid any temptation. I have to stay sharp and lucid andsensibleto see our plan through.
Our new alliance has been a blessing. The Regazzis have doubled our men on the ground, and Rodriguez’s son, Miguel, has been like a bloodhound with a tear tattoo. With his nose to the ground, he did in three days what the Quinns couldn’t do in a month—hunt down Igor’s whereabouts. Turns out, he’s been moving from town to town. Airbnb rentals, YMCA’s, and even camping in the wilderness. The great King Igor Bratnov has been living like a pauper, snaking his way closer to Quinn territory.
If I wasn’t so fired up, I’d be chilled to my core. He hasn’t sent his men to do his dirty work, he’s doing it himself. Bratnov means business, just like I do.
Miguel’s men have followed him right to our city. Now the Russian bastard is on our doorstep, on our turf. It’s only a matter of time until the final showdown.
And I need a plan for after the fact.
I steal one more glance back at the Museum. The view of it from my study is the very reason I’ve barely stepped foot in here all week. Too much temptation to break the goddamn window, shimmy down the fucking drainpipe and cross the grounds to see her. To get into her bed and breathe in her vanilla and bubblegum scent and feel her soft curves against mine.
To fuck the reality of war away.
No lights and no signs of movement tonight. I swallow the desire and ignore my twitching hands and head out of my study. I take the stairs to the lobby then another set of stairs that lead to the lower level. Passing the fleet of cars in the garage and the laundry room, I stop outside a door at the of the hall.
One sharp knock and the door opens. Orna’s face immediately contorts into a scowl. “Is the estate on fire?”
“Can you smell smoke?”
“No. But it must be an emergency if the great Lorcan Quinn is making an appearance in the peasant chambers.”
My ribs hurt when I laugh, but not because anything Orna says is remotely funny. I push past my cousin and stride into her quarters. I stand in the middle of the living room area, with its soft cream walls and overstuffed corner sofa. It’s impossible to resist the pull of the million cushions lining it, and I sink into it without thinking twice.
“What do you want, Lorcan,” Orna groans, “I’m off duty and I’m tired.”
“Remember when your mom lived here?” I muse, “She painted the walls the color of Pepto Bismol.”
This gets a huff from her. “Yeah. You know it took me twelve layers of paint to get rid of it?”
“You? ‘Cause if I remember correctly, I’m the one who gave up a week’s vacation in Cancun to paint over that shit show. I get PTSD every time I have heartburn.”
“All right, well I chose the paint color, at least.”
I glance at the cream walls. “Yeah. Difficult choice.”
“And kept you company the entire week,” she protests, sinking onto the other side of the sofa.
“Yeah, being tortured by every ABBA album on repeat was really entertaining.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but her face softens. I throw a cushion at her head and get right to my first question. “Why have you had a face like a slapped ass every day for the last month, then?”
