Page 209 of Wicked Proposal

Fury rises within me. Bright, burning, fire and brimstone and the goddamn meteor that killed the dinosaurs.

I hand Reese a bag of frozen peas and pick up my bag. “Wait,” he says. “We need to call the police. We?—”

“They won’t help. Not with this.”

“Then we call Yulian!”

“He’s not who we thought he was, either.”

“Then—” Reese stammers, eyes wide. “Where are you going?”

“To get back my son.”

64

YULIAN

The scotch glass hits the counter hard.

The bartender doesn’t need any more encouragement than that to bring the bottle again. His eyes are scurrying away from mine as he pours, terrified. If I’d been any other client, he would’ve cut me off already.

But I’m not any other client. I’m the deadliest son of a bitch in New York. A piece of shit with too many zeroes in his bank account and too many guns shoved through his belt.

I’m a monster.

And tonight, Mia saw it, too.

“You used me.”

“Don’t you dare touch me again.”

“Goodbye, Yulian.”

The liquor burns down my throat, chasing away the pain. Trying to, at least. But pain is a stubborn bitch.

“Have you tried gasoline yet?” a female voice chimes in. “I hear it tastes just as bad.”

“Go away, Nikita.”

“I’ve been away for three months.” She shrugs, slides into the empty stool next to me at the counter. “I’m not staying gone longer than that.”

Her sass hits all the wrong notes. “Then where the fuck were you tonight?” I snarl. “You were supposed to stand guard. This happened onyourwatch. I swear, if we didn’t have the history we do?—”

“I know,” she overrides. “I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t miss the guilt in her voice if I tried. It makes me feel like shit. “‘Sorry’ won’t cut it, Nika.” I grimace. “You didn’t get the color of the napkins wrong; you left a hole in our defenses. Someone took a bullet.Miaalmost?—”

“I know!” There’s a desperate, pleading edge to her tone. “I’m really fucking sorry, Yuli. I don’t know what else to say.”

“You could start with an explanation.”

She takes a brittle exhale, then gestures to the bartender for a drink. When it comes, she downs it in one go. “I passed out. During my rounds.”

“Bullshit.”

“Is it?” She lifts up her sleeve, showing me the constellation of needle marks in her arm, the bruises still bright purple. “I’ve been fed through a tube for three months, Yulian. I haven’t been walking, standing, or even being awake for more than five minutes at a time. Tonight, I could barely sit down.”

“You said you could handle it.”