Page 96 of Shattered Stars
He’s a cunning fucker. I don’t know whether he believes me. It’s clear he senses something’s not right about me, about this.
“The little bitch deserved to suffer,” he says lowly.
I peer at my hands. “Did I say she didn’t?”
Marcus nods. “Good … good.” He drops the box on the table beside the bed. “I was beginning to think you’d turned soft, Renzo. That maybe you’d grown a heart of your own.”
“Me?” I chuckle. Then I thump my hand against my chest, right above where my heart pounds against my ribs. “Empty. Completely empty.”
“I thought as much,” Marcus says, rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin.
“So what’s the next job, boss?” I say.
“Renzo,” he says, reaching over the edge of the bed and hauling the girl back onto the mattress. “Fuck off.”
I do as he says. There’s no point provoking him. Especially as my curiosity is gnawing at my insides. I want to know what’s going on, what he’s plotting. I’ve never cared before. I’ve never been interested. The killing part has been the interesting bit. The motives, the reasons, I don’t give a shit. But now I have something to care about. And so now, I need to know.
It was Marcus who spotted me that day on the street, fighting. Marcus who saw my potential and tempted me home. He wasn’t in charge back then, it was his father but even then it was clear Marcus was going to inherit the throne. He was smart, clever, fucking beguiling.
I’ve never cared what he’s done, why he’s done it, but the things he’s done have always made sense to me. He wants power and money – nearly as much as I want to make people hurt. Every move he’s ever made has been motivated by those two things.
But this?
I step out into the compound yard to watch all the busy bees. But am I seeing it wrong? Did I confuse it in my head? I blink my eyelids, strain my vision.
Soldiers from the West. I can tell by the way they speak, by their hollowed-out cheeks. They look half starved. Is that why he’s loading up the sheep and sending them over the border?
Along with weapons?
It makes no sense.
35
Azlan
I’ve been away too long. Farlonger than I intended. The attack meant the need to take deviating, less obvious routes to the border but I’m not prepared to piss about getting back, no matter the danger. I don’t like being away from her and that’s not just because I’m concerned for her safety, concerned to have her lying back in my bed. No, I miss the little thing. She’s burrowed under my skin. Fuck, she’s burrowed into my heart and I miss her voice, her face, her scent. I miss everything about her.
Despite the crazy speed I drive, pushing my bike and my body to the fucking limit, the journey passes achingly slowly, every yard, every mile creeping past so that I want to scream with frustration.
I think of the assassin and his ability to slip through space and time. Shit, I don’t think I’ve ever envied anyone an ability as much as I do him. If I could do that, I could be with her now. I could be with her whenever I liked. Creeping into her room, creeping into her bed.
I drive right through the night and right through the next. It’s stupid, of course it is, especially when my eyelids droop and the road swims and swerves in front of me. But I grit my teeth and plow on, messaging both Rhi and Stone when I stop at a cafe to pump my veins full of coffee.
I am going straight there, to the academy. It’s a risk, but one my bond tells me I have no choice but to make. I can’t stand to be away from her a minute longer.
A sort of elation blossoms in my chest as Los Magicos comes into view. I’m nearly there. Nearly with her. I can almost smell her scent in the air, almost hear her voice on the wind. The busy traffic forces me to slow down but I don’t care now. Home is in touching distance.
Of course, all my plans go to shit as I glide down the main street of the city, my phone beeping in my jacket. I’m tempted to ignore it. It will be Rhi, or Stone, and I’ll be seeing both in a matter of minutes. But then it dawns on me the message may be important, a warning, a hint to proceed with caution.
I pull up, and not leaving the saddle of my bike, pull out my phone.
The chancellor.
I groan like a man gutted with a blunt carving knife. My presence in the city has been noted and he has a request. I snort. Request? Like everything he asks of me isn’t a mandatory order.
I scroll down, my thumb halting as I read the words.
He’s become impatient. He’s no longer intent on waiting for my report, no longer bothered by what the Moreau boy may have to say about the girl. He wants to talk to her himself. And he wants me to collect her.
