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It doesn’t change anything.

I stare out the large windows facing the east and imagine Pace sees us right now, watching as I stroke my fingers through her hair, trying to soothe a hurt we both imparted. My last thought before slipping under a weightless doze is that I hope he’ll call to wake me up.

It’s nota phone call that jolts me into a panicked awareness, though.

It’s the sound of sirens.

Once I realize this, I exhale, wrapping my arms around a still sleeping Verity. West End, I’ve found, is always a little more chaotic at night, and distant sirens are just a part of its atmosphere. It’s one of the things that fascinates me about Perilini’s territory, the way West Enders let the city be part of their lives. It’s not done that way in East End. We have the Purple Palace, which is set back from the city. We’ve never heard traffic from our bedrooms, even when we were living in the Golden Row. But out here, the sights and sounds of westernstreets are married to the buildings they border. It’s loud and jarring, the sirens swelling, but I find myself growing used to it.

What I’mnotused to hearing is the sudden series of slams against the loft’s door.

It jolts Verity awake, but it practically propels me off the couch, my hand ducking under the couch for a gun.

“Go to your room,” I order, racking the slide. “Lock the door. Don’t come out until?—”

“Verity?” Another loud bang against the door precedes Remington Maddox’s panicked voice. “It’s us, open up!”

The look I give her says in no uncertain terms that this doesn’t change the spirit of my command, and with a shocked scowl, she obeys, scurrying into the bedroom.

Laying abandoned on the couch, my phone begins ringing.

Pace’s ringtone.

Turning to the door, I lift a finger that I know Pace will see. “Maddox?” I call. “What do you want?” I just saw Remy a couple of hours ago, leading some of the frat members to the refrigerated truck behind the gym with the coolers holding the blood bags. He seemed a lot more calm than he sounds now.

“Open the fucking door!” he screams.

Screams.

It goes against every instinct in my body, but with another glance toward the window, I clench my teeth and unlatch the lock.

The second I crack the door, all of them slam through, pouring in like an avalanche. Maddox is first, then Perilini, Ballsack, and one of the DKS members I’ve begun recognizing as a soldier, Kaz.

They’re carrying a bloody Nick Bruin with them.

“Lock it!” Sy barks, but no one waits for me. Kaz slams it shut behind them, popping the latch.

I watch, frozen, as Sy dumps Nick on the floor because he’s fuckingchokinghim. “What the hell are you?—”

But no.

Sy isn’t choking him.

He’s applying pressure to a wound.

The same wound that's saturated Nick’s shirt, down to the waist, with dark, sticky blood.

My phone goes off on the couch again, and I rake my fingers through my hair. “Shit.”

“Nicky, stay with us,” Sy’s snapping down at him, but Nick’s eyes are unfocused and cloudy, his face pale.

Remy looks like he just ran a marathon, soaked in sweat and blood. He’s staring down at his shaking, blood-covered palms, panting out some wild-eyed nonsense. “Crimson and black,” he gasps. “Ruby and onyx. The river didn’t lead to the sea.”

A stone-faced Ballsack leans close to translate this gibberish. “Oakfield’s brother caused a ruckus during a drop. Nick took a piece of shrapnel, I think.”

I survey the scene with growing disbelief, wondering if those sirens I heard were meant for them. “And you brought him here?” I ask, anger swelling my chest. “With my pregnant Princess in the next goddamn room? What if he comes looking for you?!”

Kaz begins, “We’ve got some guys outside?—”