Page 71 of The Thief
CHAPTER ELEVEN
freddie
I wake up before dawn, like I always do when violence is coming.
Alastríona's still asleep beside me, dark hair spread across the pillow, one hand curled against my chest. She looks younger in sleep, peaceful in a way she never is when she's awake. It makes my chest tight just watching her breathe.
Christ, when did this happen? When did she stop being a job and start being the most important thing in my world?
The thought of losing her, of Trace getting his hands on her, makes my blood run cold. I've lost too many people already. Mam died when I was eight, cancer eating her alive while I watched helplessly. Dad's been rotting in prison for the last fifteen years. He might as well be dead for all the good he does me. And now Jer's gone; the man who saved my life is lying cold in the ground because of Trace Harrington's twisted need for revenge.
Can't lose her too. Won't lose her.
She shifts in her sleep, moving closer to my warmth. Her hand flattens against my chest, right over my heart, like she's making sure it's still beating.
Smart girl. Sometimes I'm not sure it is.
I slip out of bed carefully as I don't want to wake her. She needs rest before tonight, before everything goes to hell. The floorboards don't creak under my feet—old habits from a lifetime of breaking into places I don't belong.
Downstairs, I hear voices in the kitchen. Henry's gravelly tone mixing with someone else's. Someone I recognize.
Marcus.
Rage hits me like a physical thing. That bastard is standing in Henry's kitchen, drinking Henry's coffee, pretending to be loyal while planning to sell us all out to Trace. Acting like he's not the reason good men are going to die tonight.
I take the stairs two at a time, trying to keep my footsteps quiet. The last thing I need is to alert Marcus that I'm coming. Element of surprise might be the only advantage I have.
They're at the kitchen table when I round the corner, Henry with his morning paper and coffee, Marcus with a plate of eggs like he doesn't have a care in the world. Domestic scene—if you ignore the fact that one of them is a fucking traitor.
"Morning, Freddie," Henry says without looking up. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough." I pour myself coffee, keeping my movements casual. "What's the plan for today?"
"Final preparations," Marcus says. "Making sure everything's ready for tonight's dinner."
The way he says it, so calm and matter-of-fact, makes me want to put my fist through his skull. He knows what's coming tonight. He knows Trace is planning to turn Henry's family dinner into a massacre.
"Right," I say. "The dinner."
"Should be a lovely evening," Marcus continues. "All the family together, celebrating Alastríona's homecoming."
Celebrating. Christ, the bastard's practically gloating.
"Henry," I say, my voice carefully controlled. "Could I have a word? Privately?"
Something in my tone must register because Henry looks up from his paper and studies my face. "Of course. Marcus, would you excuse us?"
"Certainly. I'll be in my office if you need me."
Marcus leaves, but not before shooting me a look that's probably meant to be friendly. All I see is the face of a man who's about to get a lot of good people killed.
The moment he's gone, I'm moving; checking for listening devices, sweeping the room with practiced efficiency. Can't be too careful when you're about to accuse someone of treason.
"What's this about?" Henry asks.
"Marcus."
"What about him?"
