Nikolai looked at his fingers. “It must have gotten on me during the aftermath. It was everywhere at that point—on the sidewalk, on the Wolves.”
So far back in the building, the heater’s high, warbling hiss was loud and angry when it came on. Nikolai’s cool green eyes met Anteros’s stare for a long second before he bent his head deferentially. His curls shivered with the air now blowing out of the vents.
“I’m ashamed of how easily I went down,” Nikolai whispered.
Anteros studied the boy a beat, then nodded and changed the subject. “I need you to keep an eye on Crazy A.”
Nikolai looked up, eyes widening almost imperceptibly. “Yes, is there…” He hesitated. “Is there anything I should be looking for in particular?”
“Just watch him, tell me everything he does.” Nikolai bowed his head in acquiescence and Anteros walked back to his wing, thinking about the events he’d put into motion. Anteros had been much younger than Nikolai when he’d started plotting against Lucio, and he wasn’t about to have that happen to him. He wanted to see what the boy brought him, but more than that, it would be a good opportunity to give Nikolai some responsibility.
Crazy A was crafty. He wasn’t The Council, he wasn’t Lucio—he wasn’t like anyone at all. He wouldn’t go down with just a fight, he would destroy the world in the chaos that had become his soul. Anteros hoped it wouldn’t come to death, hoped he could keep the Wolf on his leash, but in the end, if he had to kill Crazy A, it would be done correctly.
It was morning before he realized he’d missed the meet with Frankie. Now light streamed in through the one window high up on the wall, creating a bright yellow square on the floor. He sat up swiftly and reached for the phone—twenty unread texts, the last one sent at five in the morning. Anteros hopped off the couch, threw on a hoodie and jeans, and headed for the garage. She was probably gone, but he had to see.
“Everything all right?” Crazy A called out as Anteros rushed down the hall past him and Pretty Boy.
Anteros stalled. “Yes.”
“Looks important,” Crazy A said. “Need backup?” Anteros slowly turned around, facing them in the dusky hallway.
“If you think going for a ride is important.” Anteros used to go out on his bike to clear his head all the time, but just like everything else about his old self, after assuming Lucio’s responsibilities, he’d stopped. Two beats passed, Crazy A’s stare vivid in the dark, and then Pretty Boy spoke.
“Cool. Glad to see you’re riding again.”
“Yeah.” Crazy A shifted. “You gonna be back in time for the meeting?”
“What do you think?” Anteros continued toward the garage, not giving them a chance to question, not giving himself a chance to rethink what he was doing. He pulled open the door just as Pretty Boy called after him,
“Let Tough Tino follow you. After the bomb, you could use the extra security.”
“I can handle myself.” The door shut with his reply and Anteros hopped on his bike, peeling out of the garage. The place wasn’t far, as Frankie had specified, just around the corner from Lucia’s club at an old, boarded up church.
When Anteros pushed the door open, the creak echoed. Bright yellow light poured through open slats in the roof and bits of snow from the previous night dusted the ground. He could sense the place wasn’t empty by the tug in his gut, the painful but pleasurable ache that tore through his insides. She was barely a shadow in a pew at the very front, but even her shadow caused a wildfire of emotion inside him.
He walked up the center aisle, footsteps echoing in the vaulted room. With her head down, her face was masked under a sheath of silky curls. She sat beneath a great stained glass window that bathed her skin in jewel-toned colors of reds, oranges, and yellows. Instead of the usual religious depiction, the window portrayed a phoenix rising from flames and ashes. Sunlight streaming through the gl
ass ignited the flames and feathers.
“I should have left,” Frankie said, not bothering to turn around. “Lucia will know I’ve been gone now.” The tip of her nose broke through the curtain of her silky locks as she spoke, painted pink by the window’s light, and the arch of her honey neck was illumined by the light.
“Why didn’t you?” he asked, putting his hand on the pew’s edge. Frankie lifted her head toward the window, a shifting kaleidoscope of colors painting her delicate features. Anteros waited for her to turn to him, but she just stared out the window.
“I stayed because I’m an—” She stopped midsentence, looking at him at last. Her brows drew together, mouth parting and eyes going wide.
“What?” He straightened, expecting to find someone in the empty church with them, before realizing it was him she was alarmed by. He instantly regretted that he’d only thrown on a hoodie. He hadn’t expected her to care about his injuries—wasn’t accustomed to it. Anteros had grown up without people caring, and that had never changed. He’d parked and walked the block to the chapel, and that only proved he could be bleeding on the streets and no one gave a shit. Even still, the Wolves didn’t care about him they cared about what his death meant for them.
She ran to him. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” He turned to walk away but had to take a seat so she wouldn’t see his limp. He really should have had the fucking doctor check him out.
“Nothing?” Her voice rose with incredulity. “You’re limping and covered in blood. Don’t fucking lie to me.” Anteros mentally winced that she’d seen him limp. “Are you really going to sit here and fucking—”
“A bomb,” he said at last.
“A bomb?” She rushed to him and dropped to her knees. Frankie gently touched the still very bloody gash just below his collarbone and his eyes narrowed while she fussed. Had she really not known? That was somehow more horrifying than the idea of her not warning him. Before he could ask, she stood up and disappeared into a back room.
Minutes later Frankie returned, a bottle of water and a towel in her hands. No words were shared as she got to her knees, setting the bottle next to her. She poured the clear liquid on the towel and then placed the cloth to his chest. She paused, their eyes locking, and exchanged a silent question. Anteros studied her, on her knees and ready to clean his wounds. For some reason, this was more disturbing to him than when she’d held a knife to his throat, but the ardent affection in her blue eyes had him nodding. She placed the towel to his chest.