Page 75 of Tainted Blood

I shower and wash my hair, running my fingers lightly over the raw skin where Santi carved his promise into me. Inhaling the sting, and relishing it…

Drawing strength from it.

It feels good to finally want to fix me for a change. For years, I’ve been the one trying to fix my father from his badness, and my sister from her illness... I don’t know how the hell I’m going to achieve it, but I have a pretty good idea of where to start.

Dressing in black jeans, red Chucks, and a vintage music T-shirt, I leave my wet hair loose, with a brush of mascara and blush as my only make-up. Grabbing my purse from the living room, I head for the door.

“Where are you going?” Ella cries, appearing in the kitchen doorway, looking adorably confused by the fact that I look like a normal human being today instead of a sloth. “I just made pancakes. I even have the syrup.”

“I’m off to buy a map,” I say cryptically, barreling out of the door and straight into a wall of hard muscle.

“Jesus, Thalia, where’s the fire?”

I look up to find my favorite bodyguard bruising up the hallway again.

“Reece!” Dropping my purse, I fling my arms around his huge waist, filling our reunion with apologies. “I’m sorry I ran off to New Jersey. I’m sorry I told you so many lies. I wanted to tell you the truth so many times.” I pull back to look at him, convinced he’s a mirage. “I thought my father was going to kill you after everything I did.”

“It wasn’t pretty, sweetheart, but I’m still alive. We both are,” he finishes roughly, chucking my chin like he used to do when I was a kid. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.”

He goes to say something else, then changes his mind at the last second. “So, where are we headed?”

“Out.”

“Care to be more specific?” he says, arching an eyebrow at me. “You know you can’t leave this apartment without your security detail. So, what's the deal? Are you climbing out of a fifty-story window this time, or are you giving me an address so I can arrange men and vehicles?”

“Men and vehicles, please,” I say, giving him a sheepish smile. “I need to see Edier Grayson right away.”

* * *

Edier’s office is situated on an ultra-stylish street on the Upper West Side, lined with sycamores, Corinthian columns, and gray stone porches. It’s ruthlessly lavish, and brutally understated, and nothing about it surprises me in the slightest.

It’s just so… Edier.

Art and design have a way of splashing color onto everything, including death and destruction. Somehow, my childhood friend will always find a way to combine the two.

Reece opens my car door for me, and I’m escorted through a line of armed guards and into an elegant white lobby with check marble floor tiles. From there, we take an elevator up to the top floor, where I’m shown into a huge white room with black furniture.

Edier is sitting with his boots up on his desk, drumming his fingers lightly against the surface as he confers with a couple of his men. He looks up as we enter, his usual deadpan expression lifting in surprise when he sees me.

“Leave us,” he snaps, indicating to Reece too.

As soon as the door shuts, his boots are slipping from the desk. “Thalia,” he says, prowling up to me, looking just as much of a handsome, ruthless cartel king as Santi does. “Thank fuck you’re okay.”

“Thanks to you,” I say, reaching out to touch his arm. “I mean it, Edier. I’ll never forget it.”

He frowns down at my hand that’s now become the focus of the conversation. Edier has a habit of making you feel like the center of the universe, but he’ll never let you reciprocate it. Since taking over New York, he keeps everyone at arm’s length. Just ask my sister… She knows all about his hot and cold syndrome. Her fingers are covered in scars from trying to get close to his barbed wire fences.

“I’ll take half the praise, but credit where it’s due,” he says, moving away, leaving my hand suspended in thin air. “As much as it pains me to admit it, your husband earned the rest.”

At this, I drop my hand like a stone.

“How’s Sam?”

“Still breathing. Stick around if you want confirmation. He’s due here any minute.”

“Three cheers for the epic survival rate among us,” I say wearily. “I know what Santi did for me, Edier. I know what he risked.”

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