“Russian.”

There was a certain ire to Niklaus’ tone as he answered the call, shifting his hands on the wheel as he put the phone to his ear. He didn’t sound particularly excited whenever his phone rang, but whoever was on the other end this time, it was clear that Niklaus felt a way about them.

“Despite what you think, I do have a life outside of your fucking Bratva.”

Bratva. She had heard that word before, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember where she had heard it, or even what it meant.

“I’ll pencil you in tomorrow,” Niklaus said with a roll of his eyes, even if the person on the other line couldn’t see him. “Fine. Stop your fucking bitching, I’ll see you within the hour.”

Hanging up, Niklaus tossed his phone on the seat, then turned on his blinker before merging into the turning lane.

“I need to make a stop first,” he explained, as he made a U-turn, heading back the way he came.

“With a Russian…” Reagan hedged, hoping he would offer up more.

“Mishca is his name, my brother.”

There was definitely bad blood there from the way Niklaus spoke about him in that detached manner of his. And she could only remember once when Niklaus had brought up his family.

“I didn’t know he lived here.”

A tick worked in his jaw, but he didn’t sound bothered as he answered. “We grew up separately.”

She frowned, feeling a pang in her chest. “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t imagine not growing up with her brothers.

“Don’t be,” Niklaus said with a wave of his hand. “He’s a dick.”

Reagan didn’t get a chance to comment on that fact before Niklaus was mumbling to himself.

“An obnoxious little shit with a hero complex.”

“A hero complex?”

“You have no fucking idea.”

She really didn’t, but the way he spoke about him, with such disdain and annoyance, she was almost afraid to ask him what problem he had with his sibling.

It wasn’t long after that they were turning into a side alley adjacent to a number of storage units. Already parked a ways down was a jeep spattered with mud that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years.

Leaning against it was a man with curling blond hair, a rigid jaw, with almost every inch of his skin covered in colorful tattoos.

Intense.

That was the only way Reagan could think to describe the man standing not too far away, most of his impressive height slouched over as he leaned against that muddy truck that looked like it had been used in Desert Storm. He hadn’t spoken yet, nor had he threatened them in any way, only turned predatory eyes in their direction, but it was enough to make a sliver of fear run down her spine.

The only thing he did was smile. But there was something about that expression that made her think if she caught him in a dark alley one night, he would still be wearing that same smile while slicing her throat.

His gaze never left hers as he said, “You must be Reagan.” He lifted a tattooed hand to push the longish, blond strands back out of his face.

She had thought Niklaus was someone to fear after she had witnessed what he was capable of, even Liam and Rourke, but this one? He was something else entirely.

“I am,” she finally responded after glancing at Niklaus. “Sorry. I don’t think Niklaus mentioned you.”

His smile only grew as he glanced at the man standing next to her. “Probably not. Our bromance has only gotten stronger over the last year and a half. He didn’t like me much before.”

She felt compelled to ask, “Why not?”

“Meh, I tortured him for a few days. Grisly business, mind you, but we worked it out.”

“For fuck’s sake, Luka. Cut it out.”

Reagan wanted to believe that he was joking, however morbid the joke, but neither of them laughed, and though the blond was smiling, it didn’t look particularly humorous.

She remembered the scars on Niklaus’ back just then, the jagged lines that she knew caused him a phantom pain even now, no matter how long ago those wounds had been made.

This was the man that put them there?

She would think that after everything he had told her, the retribution he had delivered after what had been done to him, that this man would be at the top of his hit list.

Yet, there he stood—almost arrogant in his way of telling her what he had done.

Reagan didn’t think before she struck, the palm of her hand cracking across his cheek. He had to have seen the hit coming, but he hadn’t moved, nor did he try to stop her from hitting him.

He just stood there, like this was the reaction he wanted from her.

There was a handprint now on the side of his clean shaven face, but he paid it no mind as he looked to Niklaus. “I like her.”

Niklaus’ expression was unreadable as he regarded Luka, but whatever silent message he was trying to send, the man was ignoring it.

“Ignore him,” Niklaus said, tearing his eyes away. “The woman who holds his leash is in Paris at the moment—she’s the only one that keeps him sane.”

A burst of laughter escaped Luka as he rubbed at the handprint on his face, and for the first time, Reagan noticed the black band that encircled his finger.

“I don’t think sane is the right word,” Luka interjected.

“Where’s the Russian?”

Reagan didn’t doubt that Niklaus was referring to the man he’d been on the phone with not too long ago, but she did wonder why he didn’t use a name.

Luka glanced down at his watch. “Should have been here by now. He’s never late.”

No sooner had that statement left his mouth before his gaze shot up, aimed in the direction of a car that was pulling into the alley. Reagan was expecting a smile from him, or at least some indication that he knew who was coming, but there was only a second, one where his face twitched with confusion, before he was reaching behind him.

It was just a second…just one before the loud crack of a bullet split the air.

The doors to the car were swung open as multiple men—at least three that Reagan could see before she was shoved to the ground by Niklaus—came stumbling out, guns trained on them as they fired with abandon.

“Stay down!”

She didn’t have to be told twice, clamping her hands over her ears to drown out the gunshots.

Niklaus was on his feet, a gun in each gloved hand as he fired back. Though terror had seized hold of her, she looked back, trying to see whether the men were still there, and they were, but one was on the ground, a bullet in his head, his eyes open and unseeing.

Reagan doubted she would ever get that image out of her head.

A tire on Luka’s truck exploded, flattening instantly as a bullet plugged into it. Reagan, without thinking, scrambled away, but in her haste, Niklaus’ attention had shifted to her for a split second.

Then, his body jerked to the side as he gave a grunt, the gun dropping to the ground.

Shit. He was shot!

He dropped to a knee, but didn’t go down completely. Lifting his good arm, he fired another round, the muscles in his arm straining against the recoil.

And with that last shot, silence echoed.

Reagan stumbled forward, reaching to help Niklaus as he struggled to his feet, but out the corner of her eye, she caught Luka dashing forward, running for the car that was backing out of the alley.

He ran like a man without fear, or maybe like a man that wasn’t rational. “I got him, coach!” Luka shouted out a second before he fired at the car’s tires, preventing the man from going any further.

He jumped onto the hood of the car sliding across before dropping down on the other side as he yanked the driver’s side door open, pulling the lone man from inside and dragging him to the mouth of the alley.

He was a grown man, one that Reagan recognized as one that hung around Liam and Rourke, but with the way Luka handled him, it was like he was handling a child.

Stowing his gun away, Luka pulled out something else, something metal and tapered to a point. It glinted in the soft light of the waning twilight, but before Reagan could see what Luka would do next, Niklaus turned her face away, forcing her attention on him.

Judging from the cry of pain that split the air, Reagan was sure she didn’t want to see what was happening anyway.

“How bad is it?” she asked, reaching for the part of his shirt that was torn and saturated with blood. From what she could tell, it was still bleeding.

“It’s a flesh wound,” he said easily, too easily, making her think that he wasn’t being completely honest. “Luka! Stop playing with your prey. We need to go.”

“Aww, but—”

“Now, you little shit!”

Reagan couldn’t begin to understand the relationship between Niklaus and Luka. She would have thought Niklaus hated him, just because of what had been done to him, but beneath the insults that he seemed to keep throwing in Luka’s direction, they seemed more like friends—good friends—than enemies.

“Fine,” Luka said as he came back over, swiping his hands along the front of his shirt, uncaring the he was leaving bloody finger marks behind. “That looks bad.”

Luka accentuated the remark by poking Niklaus’ wound, jumping back when Niklaus moved to grab him.

“There’s no need to get feral, Red. Give me your keys.”

“Not on your fucking life.”

Luka, whose expression had changed to one of sarcastic patience, gestured to his own truck. “Can’t drive mine—it’s shot to shit at the moment. If we’re going to get out of here, you have to let me drive.”

It was beyond clear that Niklaus couldn’t want anything less, but ultimately, he tossed him the keys. “You chip my paint, I’m shipping your ass back to Albania.”

Luka shot him a middle finger, but didn’t respond as he climbed in the driver’s seat, waiting for them to climb in after him before he reversed out of the garage, then down the alley. He had his phone out and was dialing a number before they were ten feet away.

“Sorry, your day off is cut a little short. I had a little accident that I need you to clean up.” Luka rattled off an address to whoever he was on the phone with, then said, “I’d clean it up myself but someone’s bleeding out next to me and that’s a little more important. Oh, and there’s one I left alive, take him to the wet rooms.”

Reagan didn’t know what the wet rooms were, but she was sure she didn’t want to find out either.

Niklaus made a sound from the front seat, a mix between a groan and a grunt, as he rolled the sleeve of his shirt up, revealing the torn and bleeding flesh of his arm. The sight of it only made the nausea churning in her stomach grow worse.

“Shit, I think she’s going to be sick,” Luka muttered, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. “And it’s hard cleaning vomit out of things. Trust me, I would know.”

Ignoring him, Niklaus looked to Reagan, trying to shift his expression into something other than pain.

“You need a hospital,” Reagan said, too afraid to touch him, even in comfort, in case that only hurt him worse.

“Not at all,” Luka chimed in. “Lauren can get him stitched up in no time.”

Who was Lauren?

But Reagan didn’t get a chance to ask before they were pulling into a parking structure in the middle of Manhattan, the building it was connected to far nicer than Reagan’s own place. This was the kind of place she’d dreamed of living in—a definite improvement than the closet she was currently living in.

She knew even in Manhattan, the places were tiny, but at least they were nicer.

Reagan was worried, wondering how they would just walk through the front doors of a building like this. Niklaus was bleeding, and Luka…well, he looked like the reason for the blood, but instead of going through the front, they circled the building and took the elevator up to the top floor, to a penthouse apartment that had Reagan more curious as to whom they were there to see.

“Should I even ask what you’re doing here, Lu—”

But the girl who was rounding the corner, who looked around the same age as Reagan, stopped when she caught sight of the three of them. Then, with uncanny precision, her gaze locked on Niklaus’ wound, a flash of fear in her gaze before she reached for him.

“Let me see.”

“I’ve been shot before, you know.”

“I’m sure.”

“Lauren, really. Don’t—”

The girl—Lauren—didn’t seem to care what Niklaus was saying, not with the way she just grabbed hold of his good arm and marched him into the living room, shoving, albeit gently, him onto a bar stool and told him to stay there.

“Where the hell is Mish? I thought he was supposed to be meeting you.” Lauren called out, having disappeared into a guest bathroom, walking back out with a small first-aid kit.

“Yeah, this happened before he got there,” Luka answered. “Where’s the little one?”

“In his room—but don’t wake him, Luka. I know you. I’m trying to keep him on his schedule, but if you keep disrupting it whenever you come around, that’s only going to make it worse on both of us.”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”

From the way Lauren rolled her eyes, she didn’t believe him—but neither did Reagan.

“Right, sorry. Reagan, this is Lauren Volkov.”

Volkov?

She shared his last name? While she knew genetics were an iffy thing, Reagan couldn’t see the similarities between them, if there were any. Maybe one or the other was adopted?

“Reagan, you said?” Lauren’s tone had changed, even the way her gaze shifted to Niklaus was curious, but whatever silent message passed between them, Reagan didn’t understand it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Reagan. I don’t know if Niklaus has mentioned me, or us, but I’m glad you’re here.”

Reagan was too distracted by Niklaus carefully pulling his shirt off to properly hear what Lauren was saying, but she was sure there was something she was not getting.

And no, she didn’t think Niklaus had mentioned her, or their relationship, but she didn’t want to mention that in case it hurt her feelings. It was obvious she cared a great deal about Niklaus from the way she was carefully examining his wound and cleaning it.

As Reagan turned away from them, looking around the space, she wondered why Niklaus had never bothered to mention her, or really, any of the people he was supposed to be meeting with today.

It was only a reminder that he was still hiding things despite how honest he had been.

But she could have moved past that if she hadn’t looked up and her gaze seized on the painting that was proudly hung.

If it had been of anyone else, she would have loved it. The detail was immaculate, and had probably cost thousands of dollars to have produced, but as Reagan stared at the woman and man in the portrait—particularly the man—one that she had pined for years, one that had made her feel like no one else ever had...

She was fucking pissed.

“You’re married?”

Niklaus’ gaze swung to her, a look of shock crossing his features before his eyes shifted to the painting that had held her attention for so long.

“Reagan, it’s not what—”

She was on her feet in a second. “It’s not what I think? Is that what you were about to say because it sure a fuck looks like it’s exactly what I think, Niklaus!”

“No, wait—”

“What’s all the yelling about?” Luka asked, reappearing with a sleepy toddler at his side.

And if anything, the sight of him only made it worse.

He looked just like Niklaus.

Just. Like. Him.

It didn’t matter that the adorable little boy couldn’t be any old than a year—give or take a few months—the similarities between them, a perfect blend of both Niklaus and Lauren though the boy did favor his mother a little more, were too obvious to ignore.

“A child?” Reagan asked, turning watery eyes to Niklaus, feeling like her chest was cracking open. “How could you do this?”

She couldn’t even face Lauren—how could she when she didn’t know what Niklaus had told her?

“I haven’t done shit!”

“Language,” Luka said, covering the baby’s ear with his giant hand.

Niklaus glared at him. “Don’t start with me, Luka.”

“Hey, now. Don’t blame me for this. You should have warned her about who Lauren was before you brought her here.”

Even Luka had known…

She was an idiot. A fucking idiot.

“Luka, stop before I tell Alex you’re causing problems,” Lauren snapped at him, but it didn’t look like it fazed him in the slightest.

This was a joke to them.

“I’m leaving,” Reagan told Niklaus. “Just leave me alone and don’t ever come near me again.”

She had every intention of walking away, to get away from him and the lies he’d made her believe, but as she spun around, readying to do just that, he grabbed her hand before she could.

And the moment he did, when she felt his touch on her, she swung without warning, cracking her hand across his face.

“Ouch.”

The new voice came from behind her, the words colored with an accent that Reagan wasn’t very familiar with. She was expecting another of his friends, one that would be too amused by it all as Luka had been, but when she got a good look at the new person, all the anger that had taken her over fled just as quickly.

“Oh.”

Reagan was staring into Niklaus’ face, or rather his twin brother’s, and there was no question about it. And unlike Niklaus, the twin wore a three-piece suit, and wore his hair longer.

“Oh,” Reagan said a second time, wincing as she turned back to look at Niklaus. “Is it too late to say I’m sorry?”

He was still glaring at her as he made the introductions. “Reagan, meet the Russian. Mishca, this is Reagan. Careful though, she seems to be in a slapping mood today.”

“Strong right hand,” Luka added from his position on the couch.

Reagan was definitely thinking that she didn’t like him. “But he said—”

“I said that he should have told you who Lauren was, and I stick by that. She is the wife of his twin brother, anyone would have been confused.”

“That was unnecessary,” Mishca said, leveling a stern look on Luka. Despite his age, there was a certain air of authority that hung around him.

“Well unlike you lot,” Luka went on. “I don’t appreciate being his dirty little secret.”

Reagan had to wonder, as she looked to the blond man sitting on the other side of the room, whether he was actually serious or whether he was touched in the head—but no matter which, either option made her just want to avoid him further.

“Does someone want to tell me what happened?” Mishca asked as he walked over to his wife, giving her an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

“What the fuck do you think happened? I got shot.”

If Mishca was fazed by Niklaus’ bad attitude, he didn’t show it. “I’m more concerned as to why.”

“Same reason I was tortured for three days—they thought I was you.”

Yeah, there was definitely something she was missing, not to mention the bad blood that seemed to be between them.

“Should I go ahead and assume this is my fault too?” Mishca asked, sarcasm dripping from his tone as he shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it on the back on a chair.

“I’m not in the mood for your shit right now, Russian. Fuck off.”

“You do know you’re Russian too, no—or are you still pretending the same blood doesn’t run through our veins?”

“How could I ever forget? I have to see your face staring back at me every time I look in the mirror.”

Reagan didn’t think this was their first disagreement, not with the easy way in which they addressed these things, as though rehashing an old argument. But Reagan could tell there was something different about Niklaus’ last statement, if only from the way Mishca’s head jerked as though he’d been struck.

“And when should I lay blame at your feet? Believe it or not, today wasn’t about me—it was about you. It would make more sense that they mistook you for me. So what if I would have had Sacha with me? Does it only matter if it happens to you and yours, Niklaus?”

Yeah, something was definitely wrong, Reagan could sense it in the way Luka sat a bit straighter, and Lauren touched a hand to her husband’s back, a statement in itself.

“Don’t you take that fucking tone with me,” Niklaus said climbing to his feet, shoving the stool back as he walked forward, but Reagan’s hand on his stomach stopped him.

With the way he was so intently focused on his brother, she was sure he would ignore her touch entirely, shoving past her to get to him, but he didn’t move, like the hand she held up was the only thing restraining him.

It was like a light switch had been turned off inside, or rather turned on. Niklaus had the tendency to act disinterested in most things, and rarely expressed emotion, but as he stood across from his twin, fury in his eyes, it was startling to see.

“Good on you, Niklaus,” Mishca said with a pitying smile. “Make another scene just because you’re in the mood for one. Sure, I’ll play along. Did something I say offend you?”

“Don’t ever say I don’t care about them.”

“I don’t think I did.”

“Stop playing fucking word games, Russian. As much as I would enjoy putting my fist in your face, I’ve got better shit to do with my time.”

“Do you? I’m amazed you even made it this long without picking another fight. Five minutes? That has to be a record considering the massive fucking chip on your shoulder.”

“Right, and it just appeared one day? You’re quick to bark accusations, but never address the part you played?”

“Not that you haven’t told me countless times already, but what’s one more? It was my fault you were mistaken for me. It was my fault your girlfriend at the time was murdered in front of you.”

“No, it was your fault you let them walk away. I stood on the other side of that fucking door thinking that you, the actual person that was meant to feel pain beneath his hands,” —Niklaus pointed over at Luka, though his attention was still on Mishca— “would want to make them pay for what they did, but one little cut over Jetmir’s eye and blinding him was enough for you. Would it have made a difference if it was you in that seat, Mishca? Or maybe you would prefer having to watch Lauren burn alive even as she told you she loved you.”

His words…laced with such hurt and accusation were enough to make Reagan feel a pang in her chest as she digested everything Mishca hadn’t said, and all that Niklaus had revealed.

She knew about his torture, he had told her as much, not to mention the scars those days had left behind. But he had never, not once, mentioned that he hadn’t been alone that day.

Sarah, she thought Mishca had said.

Reagan had always wondered whether there had been someone Niklaus had cared for and perhaps lost because when she met him…he had seemed so lonely.

It would also explain a lot…like why he left and why he was so guarded.

How could he have ever moved past that?

“You told me not to lay my weakness at your door, remember? It no longer is.”

“Then what will you deem acceptable, hmm? I’ve offered you everything I could possibly—”

“There’s nothing you could give me that I want—not anyone that would matter to me.”

And that cut a little deeper.

Reagan withdrew her hand from his body before realizing she had. The minute she moved, all eyes came to her, as though only now remembering that she was in the room with them.

Understanding dawned in Mishca’s eyes, but Niklaus…she couldn’t read anything from him, only that he was extremely unhappy.

He started to say her name, but she cut him off with a forced smile. “You should let her finish with your arm.”

Time stretched between them as he merely stared at her, as though that would give him time to work out how she felt and make sense of it, but she didn’t—or rather she was afraid of what she would learn.

Accepting her silence, he grabbed the stool from the floor and sat, but before Lauren could go to him, he grabbed the wipes from the pack and gently cleaned the last of the blood from his arm.

Clearing her throat, Lauren’s gaze turned to Sacha as he toddled over to her, pointing at his uncle with his little finger, then making a face. “Yeah, Uncle Niklaus hurt himself.”

With all the careless grace of a child, he went over to Niklaus, grabbing on to his leg as he reached up with the other arm and waited.

Niklaus, whose body was taut with tension, relaxed a bit as he tossed the wipes on the ground to pick up his nephew. Sacha didn’t waste a beat, reaching up to rub his hand through Niklaus’ hair, and giving him a few pats on the head before pressing his mouth to Niklaus’ cheek in a wet kiss.

His job done, he slid back to the ground, leaving Niklaus smiling in his wake. But it wasn’t to Lauren that he walked, but to Mishca, who was already reaching for him before he got close.

When he was settled in his lap, Sacha did the same to him, as though trying to erase the pain his father must have felt.

In moments, he had calmed the near raging storm between them.

And all it had taken was a pat on the head from the smallest person in the room.