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He appears in the doorway, still on the phone. Still shirtless. His pants are on but not fastened, sitting low on his hips, the ink trailing down from his stomach. Still semi-hard, and entirely unbothered about it. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe and looks at me, and even now, mid-phone call, his eyes do that thing they do. Taking stock of me, making sure I’m okay.

I pull the blanket up to my chin and smile back at him.

He’s extraordinary. I’ve thought it before, but standing there in the dark with the city behind him and the phone against his ear, I appreciate the physicality of him. The ink and the muscle and the pale eyes. I think, with a warmth that throbs deep inside me: Mine.

Then his face changes.

His eyes go flat. His jaw tightens by several degrees. His shoulder comes off the doorframe.

“How?” he demands.

A pause.

His eyes come to me, and this time the look is different. A professional assessing a situation, and I am part of the situation.

My warmth evaporates.

“Got it,” he says, and ends the call.

The room is very quiet.

He looks at me for a moment, this man who carried me across his threshold an hour ago, who murmured Russian into my hair and tucked a blanket around my shoulders. His expression is asking me to forgive him for what he’s about to say.

“I’m sorry, Cora. I have to go.”

22

Zevran

Istand in the kitchen doorway and glare at the overturned chair, the broken cord, and the dark stain on the linoleum, feeling the fury of a man who has been robbed of something he was deeply anticipating.

I had plans for Troy Banks. I’d been building them since the moment I saw the fresh red mark on Cora’s face. Good plans. Detailed, unhurried plans that I was going to enjoy every second of. He was going to understand exactly what he was being punished for and by whom, right up until the very end.

And now he’s gone.

I cross to the chair and crouch down. The venetian blind cord is snapped, old and cheap, just like everything else in this miserable place. The bloodstain on the linoleum is barely two feet across.

Not nearly enough blood.

I was a year too late to save her from him. Now I’ve failed her again, and he’s out there somewhere, nursing his wounds and his grievance, telling himself in that small, vicious mind that he’s the victim.

I hear Alexei’s footstep behind me.

I straighten up. “I never thought I’d say this, but I need more men.”

“But you’ll break my heart if you stop calling me to drive you around like a hockey mom on the weekends.”

“Oh, shut up. You love it when I call.”

Alexei takes in the stained walls and the cracked linoleum without comment. “You’ve got someone to protect now. Makes sense you can’t be a lone wolf anymore.” His eyes cut to mine. “No matter how much it suits your sparkling personality.”

I spread my arms. “Really? You can’t resist a dig at a man who’s at his lowest?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. The rest of his face is impassive. “You’ve got the woman of your dreams in your bed. I’d say you’re doing fine. Make a few calls, get yourself some boyeviki at your place, and keep that woman safe.”

A dozen soldiers to protect Cora.

I don’t want her to be alone. Ever.