Page 42 of Blood, Bones, and the Bratva Bogeyman

The darkness stirs inside me.

When she comes for mine, the sun will drown in fucking ash.

“She’s threatening what’s mine. That is mistake enough to end her.”

“Every move we make, she’s already ahead.”

“She won’t be forever.”

“You sound certain.”

“I am.”

“What happens if she uses that girl against you?” Misha asks, studying me.

The flash of her standing in that alley, daring me to use her as a weapon in this war jolts my brain. Her mouth, her defiance, her fucking fire doing nothing more than spurring on the hunger I have for her. But she doesn’t understand what she’s inviting me to do, what it will cost us.

“Giselda won’t get the chance.”

Misha doesn’t argue, just eyes me with that soldier’s wariness that says he knows I’m lying to the both of us. He leans back on his heels with his eyes on me. “You have changed.”

“Da,” I murmur, climbing to my feet and wiping my hands along my pants.

“She’s changed you,” he presses. “You’re tighter, meaner. And not just because of the bond.”

I don’t answer him because he knows the truth. Misha is my best friend, so he’s always known. The bond may chain me to her, but what burns inside me when I look at Cressida . . . that’s mine. That’s not the fucking fates. That’s all me. The man who shouldn’t want anything but war yet somehow wantsher. It comes from watching her walk through fire with her chin raised as if she’s daring it to burn her. From the way she bites her lip when she’s focused, or how her voice shakes when she’s angry, but she says what needs to be said anyway.

Everything about her unravels me.

I stare down at the cloth in my hand, my fingers curling around it tighter.

“You look like you’re spiraling. Want a smoke?” Misha asks, standing and brushing the dirt from his knees.

“Are you offering therapy now, my friend?”

“I’ve been your emotional support Russian for nearly all our lives. Might as well lean into the role now.”

Despite myself, I laugh, shaking my head when he holds out a cigarette.

He sobers. “You sure about this wedding?”

When I glance at him, he clarifies. “Halloween’s coming fast. Every family will be in that cathedral watching two bloodlines unite. Cosa Nostra, Cartel, Irish, The Firm. It’s tinder and gasoline, a lot of volatile egos in one space.”

“They’ll behave,” I tell him.

“You sure?” he asks, always doubting whenever all the families are in a room together.

“I will make them if they don’t. It’s neutral ground. The cathedral has hosted three ceasefires and one demonic exorcism. No one’s dumb enough to start shit there.”

“And Giselda? She won’t need a spark. We’ll be lighting it for her with that many bloodlines in one space.”

“Our great-great grandfathers carved the law in blood. Eventhe Reapercannot break it.”

“You have much faith in someone who has failed to play by any rules so far.”

I shrug. “Giselda is someone who wants to win. She knows she would be severely outnumbered if she tries to attack us there.”

Misha chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s poetic, you and her. Tying yourselves together on the one night the veil is the thinnest.”