Page 11 of Love the Way You Lion (Rise of the Resistance #3)
The Socialite Plans An Exfiltration
PHILOMENA
T he rhythmic tapping on the table syncs with my pounding heart. I watch Sandrine’s fingers drum an urgent beat, each tap a silent echo of our collective resolve. Her eyes, usually so calm and calculating, burn with a fierceness that could ignite the very air we breathe.
“We have to pull her out,” she declares, her voice slicing through the tension in the room. “We need to go over there for a visit and insist she come home when we leave.”
I don’t miss the subtle tremor in her hand, as it pauses momentarily above the polished wood. It’s unlike Sandrine to show any hint of uncertainty, yet her concern is palpable. We all feel it—a visceral need to act, to protect one of our own from the suffocating grasp of emotional captivity.
I nod, silently reinforcing her words with my own unyielding determination. Sandrine’s plan isn’t just about confrontation; it’s about liberation. And I can see in the eyes of those around me, we’ re ready to fight for it.
The cat is too kind for her own good and it’s got to be harming her by now.
Leaning over the table, I squint at the intricate lines and scribbles that detail every nook and cranny of the Den. It’s a blueprint for our audacious plan, but my gut twists with unease. Hex stands beside me, his gaze fixed on the diagram, as if he can will it to reveal the perfect strategy.
“We can say that we’re there to pay our respects, yeah? Then we snatch her up.” He nods, more to himself than anyone else, a look of conviction etched onto his face. His fingers trace a path through the hallways marked on paper, plotting a course as if it were that simple.
Across from us, the lounger shifts in his seat, a pensive silhouette against the dim light.
The room is hushed, save for the soft creak of leather as he leans forward, his features shadowed.
When he finally looks up, there’s a weight in his eyes, a darkness that seems to pull at the very air around him.
“It won’t work,” he sighs, voice barely louder than a whisper, yet it cuts through the silence like a knife. “They’ll make a stink and she’ll refuse to leave. We’ll have to force it.”
His words hang between us, heavy and undeniable.
The simplicity of Hex’s suggestion crumbles with the complexity of reality.
My throat tightens; I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but the thought of forcing her leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
We’re trapped in a game of chess where every move we contemplate feels like hurtling towards a checkmate—against us.
And the cat has been forced to do enough, even by us, in the past few months.
I don’t like it.
The tension in the room coils tighter, a serpent ready to strike. I run a hand through my hair, feeling the prickle of frustration rise like static electricity. It’s there, at the edge of my thoughts, when Hex speaks up, his voice brimming with barely restrained aggression.
“I’m not opposed to a snatch and grab,” Taurus grunts, the words slipping from him like they’re coated in gravel.
Before anyone can respond, a presence asserts itself at the threshold of the dining area.
We all turn, a collective swivel of heads, as two figures appear framed by the doorway.
The bird and the fighter stand side by side, their postures rigid, anger radiating off them like heat from the pavement on a scorching day.
Each is dressed with lethal precision, the kind that makes you take a step back even if you’re already at a distance.
They look infuriated, and it’s clear from their entrance that they’ve been listening—perhaps longer than we’ve realized—and have something dire to add to the pot already boiling over with opinions and schemes.
My nail file hovers mid-stroke as I glance up, locking eyes with the assassin.
“Now, now. A forcible extraction will only exacerbate the problem. We don’t want them applying more pressure,” I caution, my voice as smooth as the emery board in my hand.
The steeliness in my gaze belies the casualness of my manicure.
Talia’s boots thud on the hardwood as she advances, a tempest in human form.
The knife she’s twirling—a blur of silver moments ago—slams down onto the table with a resounding crack, pinning the diagram at its center.
“That knobby bitch is holding her hostage emotionally, and we all know it.” Her words are a snarl, sharp and biting, echoing the dangerous edge of her blade.
The lounger’s head lifts, a subtle shift from the map sprawled with potential strategies to the tension thickening the surrounding air.
Talia is a shadow slipping through our ranks, a silent guardian whose presence is as calming as it is deadly.
She reaches him, her hands finding his shoulders with an ease that speaks of countless moments like this one—moments of solace in our ongoing storm.
His body relaxes under her touch, the hard lines of resistance softening.
I catch his eye for a split second and my nod bridges the distance between us.
It’s an unspoken acknowledgment of the care she provides, the bond they share.
He’s a fortress of self-reliance, yet within those walls, he battles grief—a tempest over the writer’s death that rages in bursts of rage and waves of sorrow.
Taurus snarls, his frame rigid as a steel beam, and his voice cuts through the room like a siren call to arms. “No one—I mean, no one —holds my wife hostage. Got it?”
He’s a keg of dynamite with a lit fuse, the kind where you know there’s no prospect of snuffing out the flame.
The man is a hair’s breadth away from wreaking havoc, the separation from his wife and child drawing him ever closer to the point of no return.
His fury is palpable, a tangible force that dares anyone to challenge his resolve.
We have to keep him on this side of sanity unless we want a slaughter.
I take a slow sip of my martini, the cool liquid a stark contrast to the heat of the room. The tension is a living thing, coiling around us as tightly as a python ready to strike. I set the glass down with a soft clink and clear my throat, pulling their attention to me.
“Calm down, assassin. We’re not happy, either.
” My words are a balm, or at least I intend them to be.
“It’s bad enough this comes not very long after the departure of the fallen—the loafer was just getting back to normal.
” I lean back in my chair, my gaze drifting over each face.
“We were ready to deal with baby madness, not community-wide depression.”
Siren steps forward, her stance predatory yet poised, an elegant danger that commands silence before she even speaks. Her eyes lock onto Taurus, holding him in a grip more formidable than any physical restraint could manage.
“It’s possible that she is trying to extricate herself on her own and has been unsuccessful because of emotional pressures.” Siren’s voice is smooth, calculated, like the stroke of a velvet glove over a fist of steel. “She does not enjoy being away from you.”
Taurus’s jaw clenches, the muscle ticking in a telltale sign of his barely contained wrath. He knows the truth in Siren’s statement; it’s etched into every line of worry marking his face.
“I fear it leaves us with very few tactical options, none of which are appealing.” There’s a certain respect in her tone, an acknowledgment of Taurus’s expertise that doesn’t go unnoticed. “You know that, knife thrower. It is your skill to assess such situations.”
Taurus’s hands curl into fists and then relax, the internal battle playing out right before our eyes.
His love for her, his need for action—it’s all there, written in the taut lines of his body, the hard set of his mouth.
But he’s listening, weighing her words, because if there’s one thing Taurus respects, it’s the cutthroat acumen of a fellow predator.
Talia’s expression doesn’t waver as she takes in Siren’s analysis, her brow arching ever so slightly.
The room holds its breath, waiting for her verdict.
It’s seldom that Talia concedes to a plan without some form of embellishment or dramatic flair.
But this time, there’s a gravity in her voice that matches the weight of our situation.
“Correct,” she finally says, and I can see the gears turning behind those calculating eyes.
“The only major options are: forcibly remove, grift our way in with condolences and convince her, or to allow her to find a way out on her own.” She ticks off each option with a slender finger, dismissing them just as quickly.
“Everything else—like a fake emergency, an appointment she forgot, a check-in call—will only arouse suspicion and they will double down on the pressure to keep her in place.”
Her gaze sweeps across us, taking in the resigned nods and tightened jaws. “None of the three have more than a thirty percent chance of success given the variables.”
A visceral growl emanates from Taurus’s throat, the sound filling the room with his anguish and fury. He rises suddenly, his chair scraping back with an angry screech. “ I want my sodding wife back so she can grieve! !” he bellows, fists clenched at his sides.
The intensity of his pain is palpable, and it ripples through the room, touching each of us with its raw power.
He stalks toward the bar, movements brusque and filled with purpose.
His hand wraps around a bottle of scotch, and with a swift, practiced motion, he pours a generous amount into a glass.
Watching him, the liquid amber seems to glow with the same fire that’s consuming him from within.