Page 100 of Heroes & Hitmen
He smiles fondly. “Try to stay alive then, huh? And if things look like they’re about to go bad, do yourself a favor and get the hell out of the city.”
“Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that,” I murmur, lifting the hem of my t-shirt to tuck the folder into my waistband, then dropping the fabric to conceal it.
Drake reaches out to set a meaty hand on my arm, his expression turning somber. “Seriously, man. Gage Morgan doesn’t forgive. So if you do get caught, you don’t know me. I’ve got people to protect, too.”
“Understood,” I grunt, jerking a nod. “I’ll leave you out of it,say I got the paperwork from some guy in a bar and I’m too dumb to remember his face.”
He steps back with a heavy sigh, hands falling to his sides. “You sure you wanna do this?”
“Yeah,” I reply without hesitation. “It’s not really a choice.”
Drake nods once and we start back toward the parking lot, pace a little faster than before. Halfway there, he stops and turns to me, almost an afterthought.
“She worth it?” he asks, like it’s the only question in all of this that actually matters.
I look him straight in the eye when I say, “Yeah, man. She is,” meaning it with my whole chest.
He nods again, and there’s something almost sad about it. Like he’s been where I am before. “Good luck, Ares,” he murmurs, then peels off toward the TTC building, not looking back.
I return to my Chevy, sliding in behind the wheel and dropping the folder onto the seat beside me. For a second, I just sit there staring at it, my stomach knotting at the realization that this is the final piece of the puzzle we needed for Miley to make her getaway. And the thought of letting her go, of saying goodbye… it’s fucking devastating.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone, but I guess that’s why I’m manning up and doing the right thing rather than being a selfish asshole. It’d be easy to lie, to tell her the contact flaked, to insist the only way forward would be to mate for real at the ceremony. My wolf likes the idea of that a littletoomuch– as far as he’s concerned, she’s already ours, and I know he’ll never forgive me for letting her go. But that’s what you do when you love something, right? Set it free.
Still feels shitty, though.
I crank the key in the ignition, shift the gear into drive, and pull out of the parking lot, leaving the TTC in my rearview. I’ve got the rest of the afternoon to kill, so maybe I’ll swing by campus and annoy Miley between classes. She’s still going through the motions of her everyday life, not deviating from her routine to avoid arousing suspicion that she’s leaving soon. Though part of me suspects that has less to do with sliding by under the radar and more to do with the fact that she’s a creature of habit.
I love that about her. Love everything about her, really. Her quick wit, her defiant sarcasm, the way the corner of her lips twitchwhen she’s fighting a smile. She’s all sharp edges and soft heart, and I’m already ruined for anyone else. It’ll always be her. Only her.
The folder sits heavy on the passenger seat, a little time bomb ticking its way toward the only future that matters now. The one where I’m orchestrating Miley’s escape instead of begging her to stay.
If I was a better man, I’d urge her to just leave tonight. Screw the gala, the lead-up to the ceremony, the whole PR nightmare her father built. I bet we could pull it off if we tried.
But I’m not a better man. I’m a selfish one, dragging out the hours and hoarding every moment I can get with her before we have to say goodbye. I’ll wait a few more days, steal a few more chances at making her laugh. Then I’ll blow up the lie we’re living and set her free.
Even if it goes against everything in my nature.
Even if it kills me.
CHAPTER 32
Ares
There’sa trick to knotting a bowtie one-handed while checking your voicemail and chugging whiskey. The trick is:you can’t.
I’ve been standing in front of the mirror in the hall for a while now, tie in one fist, glass in the other, my phone wedged against my ear. I’m only half paying attention to the message from one of Alpha Gage’s henchmen about our ride to the gala tonight, mostly focused on the impossible task of figuring out this bowtie and the sound of Miley’s bare feet pacing in the bedroom.
She’s been getting ready for the gala all afternoon, shooing me away any time I enter the room to check on her. I got a glimpse of her hunched in front of the vanity in a towel, then digging through her makeup bag like it was a bomb about to go off. I’ve heard the clatter of her hot tools, a few annoyed sighs, and plenty of muffled curses. Now she’s gone silent, though– which is never a good sign.
I’m not sure what’s taking so long since our wardrobe for tonight was chosen and delivered to our door, courtesy of her dear ol’ dad. The suit fits me like a glove– midnight blue, thin lapels, white shirt starched and crisp. I slicked back my hair in a misguided effort to look like a criminal in a Bond movie, but I kinda love it. The only complaint I have is this damn bowtie and the fact that my date hasn’t let me near her for hours.
I lower my phone from my ear as the voicemail comes to an end, sliding it into my pocket with the stupid bowtie and taking a pull from my glass. The whiskey burns on the way down as I strainmy ears to listen for signs of life from Miley, but there’s still nothing.
So, I finish off my drink, drop the empty glass on the kitchen peninsula, and head into the bedroom to investigate. The door’s slightly ajar, and when I push it open, I find her standing in front of the full-length mirror wearing the dress she swore she’d never put on. It’s dark blue, slinky, sheer in all the right places and none of the wrong ones… not her typical style, but she still looks exquisite. Though from the way she’s holding her arms tight around her ribs and glaring at her own reflection, she evidently disagrees.
Miley doesn’t notice me right away, so I just linger in the doorway watching her for a minute, letting her marinate in whatever self-destruction is on the menu tonight. Eventually, she drags her hands down to her hips, fingertips sinking into the fabric as she lets out a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl.
“You almost ready, sweetheart?” I ask, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe.
