A week had passed since Anteros crawled through Frankie’s window and his blood boiled for her. As much as he’d itched to tear apart the city until he got to her, he’d had to wait, had to find the perfect moment and meeting spot. That night, he finally had.

Pulling open his desk drawer, he grabbed the burner phone with Frankie’s number and quickly texted.

Tonight. Meet me at this address.

Just as he sent the location, the door burst open and with it, the lively sounds of laughter and saxophone flowed like a wave crashing over the pier. Anteros put the phone back as Nikolai came through the door, a piece of paper in his hand.

“I had to take down some flyers off the wall outside,” he explained. In the dim light, the flyer was still bright and bold, black letters stood out against the red paper. Colorful dots of lights from the club flared across the lettering.

Slay the Beast, Save the Prince.

Anteros stood up and walked to Nikolai, ripping the flyer from his hands. The prince? The fucking prince?

“They’re all gone. I saved only this one,” Nikolai continued. “I figured you would want to know before anyone else.” Like Anteros had with Lucio, Nikolai was rising through the ranks. Soon he would move beyond slave and become a soldier. Anyone who’d said Anteros should have slain the boy was wrong. Nikolai was proving to be the most loyal of his followers, even beyond the Wolves at times.

“You were right.” Anteros walked back to his desk and set the flyer down, smoothed it over the wood, and leaned against the front of the desk, arms folded. The door was still open, powerful jazz curling in the air.

“I gotta say, sending Dubois in a box was pretty fuckin’ baller.” Pretty Boy entered the room, pushing past Nikolai and knocking him slightly off his feet. Little O and Crazy A followed, though Crazy A hung in the corner. “I would have killed to see Lucia’s face,” he continued, dropping to the couch.

“Me too,” Crazy A said, eyes flashing to Anteros before resting on the polished floor. Since the move with Dubois, Crazy A had been somewhat mollified.

“The needle tested positive for acetylcholine,” Pretty Boy said. “Took so long because apparently only one fucking test can find it. The lab guy was ready to give up. We incentivized him.”

“With knives,” Little O added.

“It’s deadly,” Pretty Boy continued. “But we were expecting that. Still no leads on who helped the slave put it there.” Anteros had been pretty certain it was going to be fatal. As much as he wanted to know who’d helped Frankie, he was more curious as to why Frankie hadn’t attempted to use it on him. He hadn’t even been aware of its existence until they’d searched the room.

It probably should have pissed him off, but like all things Frankie, it did the opposite. She’d fought for her freedom by all means necessary. He more than respected that; it drove him fucking crazy. Still, a few questions lingered after discovering it. If Frankie had planned on killing him, why hadn’t she?

He came to one conclusion.

The same reason he couldn’t kill her when Crazy A demanded it of him.

“What’s that?” Pretty Boy asked, pointing to the flyer. Anteros reached behind him and held up the red paper.

“Fucking Emilio,” Little O muttered.

“I’m pretty certain Emilio is too busy getting high to bother with insurrection,” Anteros replied, setting down the paper. “No, this is something else. A red herring, maybe.” Anteros just wasn’t sure what it was distracting them from.

“We still need to handle him,” Pretty Boy said. “The princess is enough to deal with, we don’t need to add a prince.”

“Agreed,” Little O said. Since his twin’s death, Little O had been less humorous and lively. He generally sat in the corner, arms folded, only piping up occasionally. Since Crazy A was always quiet, the conversation fell to Anteros and Pretty Boy.

So silence fell as they contemplated what to do about Emilio. They were stretched thin with Big O dead, and the task couldn’t be entrusted to a soldier. Anteros exhaled, leaning farther back against his desk. Unlike the warehouse office, the club’s back room was sleek. The couch was quilted leather with chrome accents and dozens of ornate empty frames adorned the walls, gold lockets dangling from the hollow squares.

“I have an idea,” Nikolai piped up.

“You’re still here?” Pretty Boy asked.

“I’ve been in contact with someone at 72 who has information about the leak,” Nikolai continued, unperturbed.

Anteros narrowed his eyes. “I know everyone at 72.”

“He’s new,” Nikolai responded. “Captain just approved the transfer.” Anteros remembered there had been someone new around the time Giovani had died, but whoever it was hadn’t officially transferred. Anteros had final say on all transfers. He would have to have a word with the captain.

“And you just happened upon him?” Crazy A drawled, unconvinced.

“Of course not,” Nikolai said. “When you all sent me down there last week to pick up that very important stack of blank papers, he approached me.”

“Oh, yeah,” Little O chuckled, but only a little. “I remember that.”

“Who said you could talk to anyone, anyway?” Pretty Boy asked. “Isn’t that above your pay grade? You’re supposed to shine Boss’s shoes.”

“I’m trying to get shit done, which is better than taking two weeks to get analysis on one fucking needle,” Nikolai snapped.

“Oh shit.” Pretty Boy raised his hands in the air in mock surrender, laughing. “Kitty’s got claws.” Nikolai bristled and launched to his own defense. Soon the room erupted in argument, everyone’s voices melding into one grating sound.

“Enough,” Anteros said evenly, and the room went hush. “We’ll go talk to Nikolai’s man unless one of you has something better to offer.” Little O folded and unfolded his arms. Pretty Boy leaned forward on the couch, leather shifting beneath him. The club’s low, muffled music vibrated in the air, magnifying the silence. Anteros stood off the desk, unfolding his arms. “Sounds like we’re taking a road trip.”

As everyone filed out, Anteros reached back over his desk and pulled open the drawer with the phone. An unread message notification blared in the top corner. He looked over his shoulder to see that everyone was already out of the room then opened it.

See you soon.

* * *

Levi Luchessi had long mahogany hair pulled back into an austere bun, tan skin, and hazel eyes. With hands behind his back and a firm scowl, he appeared every bit the cop. That bothered Anteros. Anteros knew a straight cop when he saw one, and this guy looked it.

“Your father was a soldier,” Anteros said, resting a foot behind him on the brick wall of the precinct. The alley they were in was tight, the air bitter. People walked on the sidewalk a few feet away, not paying them any attention. The Wolves were stationed at the mouth, just in case anyone did.

Just a few blocks uptown, Frankie was at Lucia’s club. Anteros couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing. Was she getting ready to meet him?

“He was,” Levi responded, bringing Anteros’s attention back.

“He died when you were young.” Only a sliver of light pierced the alley, and in that sliver was a small patch of snow. Levi nodded, coming into the light and crushing the powder.

“It was before I came to power but after my days as a soldier,” Anteros said. “I just barely missed him, and that seems to be a theme. No one can recall a Luchessi.”

Barely a beat passed before Levi replied, “He was an unremarkable man.” Levi remained the ever stoic officer with his hands behind his back, but his tone was vicious.

Anteros raised a brow. “You didn’t care for your father?” Anteros could understand that, at least. He could understand useless fathers, could understand fathers that were useful in ruining things even more.

“I cared for him,” Levi corrected. Anteros nodded carefully at his reply, mentally preparing to end the meet with Levi and kill him, when the man added, “I cared a great deal that he had the decency to die.” The bitterness in his voice was enough to choke on.

“Your mother is also dead,” Anteros said, making a gesture for Levi to relax. Levi nodded and Anteros continued. “Both parents dead…must have been a hard life for a boy.”

Levi shrugged. “It’s life.” Anteros nodded imperceptibly to himself. Most men in Anteros’s presence were predictable. They cowered or kowtowed. Not this man.

“You didn’t like your father,” Anteros said. Levi opened his mouth to respond, but Anteros raised a hand to silence him. “It wasn’t a question. You didn’t like your father, yet you’re working so hard to walk in his footsteps.” Anteros leaned on the wall again, waiting. “That was a question.”

A few moments passed, and Levi didn’t break eye contact with Anteros. It was almost as if he was challenging him. His hazel eyes hardened to petrified wood and Anteros thought he might have to really deal with Levi, but then he looked away and said, “My father was a blight on this world. I’m not following in his footsteps, I’m erasing them.”

Anteros could believe that; he’d spent his life doing the same. Another moment passed and a single strand of Levi’s mahogany hair fell from his strict bun, across one eye, then Anteros asked, “What do you have for me?”

“I don’t know who the leak is—yet,” Levi replied. “But I have seen the woman there, Lucia. She comes often and speaks with the captain.” Anteros glowered; he’d thought the captain was loyal to him. It at least explained why the asshole hadn’t asked for his permission when hiring Levi. As far as he was concerned, he couldn’t trust anyone at the fucking precinct anymore.

He eyed Levi. “Has the captain added any new hires beside yourself?” Levi’s fate hung upon his next words. If what he said couldn’t be corroborated, Anteros would destroy him along with the rest of the precinct.

“Yes,” Levi replied. “Four men, all within the last month.” Anteros studied Levi for a beat then nodded.

“You work for me now. You tell me what goes down in there.” Anteros thumbed behind him at the building as he kicked up off the wall, telling Levi to follow. He studied the precinct as they approached its face, took in the five-story stone and brick building, the American flag jutting out above the blue double doors.

Fuck.

He wanted to burn the building, raze it to ashes. He was the one who had turned the police, and now Lucia was profiting from his spoils?

“What’s up, Boss?” Pretty Boy said as they reached the alley’s opening.

“The place is rotten.”

“Shit,” Little O muttered. “All of it?”

“All of it,” Anteros replied. To his left Pretty Boy nodded slowly, absorbing the information.

Levi checked his watch. “I gotta go. They’ll wonder where I’ve gone.” Anteros waited until the blue double doors had closed behind him to turn to the group.

“Assuming Levi is clean, he’ll be our man inside,” Anteros said, eyes still on the building. It wouldn’t take too long to learn if four new men had been hired. “When we get enough information, we throw out the rotten fruit.”

“What are you thinking?” Little O asked.

“Bomb.” Without another word, Anteros turned to walk back to where Nikolai had parked the car.

“Fucking yes,” Pretty Boy said, running after Anteros. “I am so overdue for a bomb.”

“I could use a little fire,” Crazy A conceded at his back.

“Hey, where’s servant boy?” Pretty Boy asked as they approached the Escalade. “I was gonna make him go to the M&M store while we’re down here.”

“That’s at least forty blocks away,” Little O grumbled.

“And your point is?” As Pretty Boy and Little O continued to talk, Crazy A sidled up next to Anteros so only he could hear what he had to say.

“I really thought you’d given up on all of this—the fighting, the blood. Thought you just wanted to be Boss. To fuck slaves. To do your job.” Anteros looked at Crazy A, at the hard lines in his still young face and his bitter, unfeeling eyes.

He didn’t get it. Fucking a slave was why he was back.

“This is my job,” Anteros replied as he clicked on the power for the Escalade.

Ringing.

Explosion.

Fire.

* * *

Everything was black. The smell of ember and char burned his nostrils. His lungs hurt to breathe. The last thing he remembered was Frankie, or at least thinking about her. He’d been talking to Crazy A and then…nothing. He squeezed his eyelids, realizing they were shut, and even that took effort.

“Boss?”

“I think he’s waking up.”

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“I thought he was waking up then too, shit tits.”

Anteros sat up, pushing faces out of his way. He tried to rub a hand to the back of his neck, but lifting his arm was like lifting lead. He could hear them, but couldn’t see. It was as if everything was too black and also too white.

He blinked again.

“The doctor will be here soon.” Anteros swatted at the voice and tried to stand. Maybe Little O was speaking? It was hard to tell, his ears were ringing so loud.

“Don’t need a fucking doctor. Need to get out of the street.” Was that his voice? It sounded rough and scratchy, like someone who’d been drinking and smoking all night. He stood up, wobbled a bit, eyes adjusting to the stinging.

“Don’t sit up,” someone else said, most likely Pretty Boy. “You’re fucking injured.”

“People will come,” Anteros rasped. “Need to get out of the street.”

“You’re not there anymore,” Little O said. “We got you out, sit down.” He vaguely understood what Little O and Pretty Boy were saying, but his body was still twisted on adrenaline. His blood screamed he was under attack. He had to get out. Get away.

Anteros took another unsteady, painful breath, letting their words settle. They were back at the club, in the room he’d been sleeping in. Little O and Pretty Boy regarded him with nervous faces. He could make out the tall, stout body of Levi behind them. Why the fuck had they brought him back? Crazy A was nowhere to be seen. None of them were injured, but black char marred all of their skin.

“Wait for the doctor,” Pretty Boy explained. “Nikolai went to get him.”

“He should be back soon,” Little O said, looking out the door as if he would appear.

“What happened?” he asked, ignoring them. His shirt had been singed off, chest marred with soot. Blood, new and old, crusted his pectorals and his arms. He tried to remember what had lead to this, but his mind was a fog.

“This guy,” Pretty Boy, reached behind himself and pushed Levi forward. “Saved your life. Came tearing out of the precinct like Hasselhoff and pulled you out while we were still bowled over by the explosion.” Levi stumbled into the front, chagrined. He was covered in soot, small cuts and bruises forming on his cheeks.

“I swear to God,” Anteros growled, rubbing his forehead. “What the fuck happened? Was it a bomb?”

“Oooh.” Pretty Boy dragged the word out like he’d finally gotten the answer to a test question. “Yep, car bomb—big one.”

“Lucky you turned the engine on when you did instead of when we were all in the car,” Little O added. “We’d all be dead.”

“How did it happen?” Anteros pressed. “How was someone able to put a fucking bomb in my car?” They exchanged uncomfortable looks.

“We don’t know,” Pretty Boy said. “Nikolai was watching the car but when we found him, he’d been knocked unconscious. He’s okay now, though.”

Anteros couldn’t help the furious growl that escaped him. It started low in his chest then vibrated through his throat. Gathering all of his energy, he pushed past them.

“Boss wait, if you just let the doctor see you, we can figure this—” The door slammed behind him, shutting out Pretty Boy’s words. Just as the door closed, Nikolai came running down the hall, Dr. Wyatt behind him.

“I got the doctor,” Nikolai said, pointing at the sweaty, graying man clutching a brown leather briefcase like it carried his most valued possessions. Dr. Wyatt was an emissary for The Institute, neither team Lucia nor team Beast. If they’d grabbed him instead of searching for some surgeon they could pay off, they must have thought Anteros didn’t have time to spare.

But he didn’t give a fuck.

“Clearly.” Anteros brushed past them and pounded down the hallway, trying to make sense of what had happened. He had been attacked in broad daylight, in his own goddamn car. Up until then, the war had taken place with soldiers.

He stalked farther through the secret hallways that outlined the major parts of the club. Had Frankie known? He’d been getting ready to meet her—why the fuck wouldn’t she warn him?

He ignored the groans in his limbs until, with a stumble, his leg gave way beneath him just outside a fuck room. The muffled groans and moans of people screwing on the opposite side of the wall wept through the plaster. He grabbed the wall so he wouldn’t fall, hair falling over his face as he breathed to steady his heartbeat.

“Fuck,” Anteros said aloud. Anyone on the other side would hear him, but they wouldn’t think it was a man behind a wall, they’d think it was someone in another room. The hallways were old, which meant as someone stepped behind him, he heard the floorboard groan. He turned around in time to see Crazy A approaching. He might not have been as injured as Anteros, but he was bleeding. He was hurt. Still, his face was twisted in a grin.

Crazy A’s eyes casually traveled down his chest. They stayed there, a mocking, cocksure glint in them that shouldn’t have been there after a bomb had just gone off. Anteros had half a second to be pissed at his demeanor before it hit him.

Fuck.

He was looking directly at the messy, carved F—the letter that was now visible because his shirt had nearly been blown in two. Anteros clenched the visible wooden studs until splinters pierced his palm, working out his next move. Crazy A let out a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh then attempted to walk away without another word. Anteros thrust a hand out, gripping him by the arm.

“We’re going to solve this shit, right here, right now.”

* * *

“I thought you were changing, turns out you were just getting better at hiding.” Crazy A put his hand over Anteros’s and shoved it off. In the same instant, Anteros stepped in front of Crazy A, blocking his exit.

“If you think I want to fuck that slave—especially after today—or that I…” Anteros paused, pretending he was disgusted even saying the word. “Or that I somehow fucking love her, then you really are crazy.” He punctuated the lie by alluding to the reason behind Crazy A’s nickname.

For a moment it seemed Crazy A was second-guessing his own reasoning, but then he regained his footing and hissed, “You wear her fucking brand. The rest of the Wolves were too busy fretting over you like nervous mothers to notice, but not me, Anteros. You can’t hide this from me.”

The hallway was almost entirely devoid of light, making Crazy A and Anteros monochrome. Their skin washed out into gray and their eyes became haunting white orbs, their teeth too white.

“You think I want to wear this?” Anteros asked, thumbing to the F. “Like some goddamn pussy?” Truthfully, Anteros loved it, but the lie had come easily because with each lie, he shielded Frankie from Crazy A. “You’re projecting—you’ve been projecting for months,” Anteros continued. This was the only way to get Crazy A off her back. He ignored the voice in his head that said it kept his lie alive, let him stay in his world longer.

“You didn’t kill her,” Crazy A pointed out.

“She fucking escaped.” Anteros stepped to Crazy A, curling his fingers into the Wolf’s soot-covered shirt and pushing him hard into the wall. Plaster fell, hitting them both in the head as a woman behind the walls reached a muffled, fake orgasm.

Crazy A craned his neck, inching closer to Anteros until their noses nearly touched. “You had plenty of time before then.”

Anteros tightened his grip, making the fabric at his fingers twist. The injuries he’d sustained from the bomb protested, but Anteros wouldn’t let Crazy A see any weakness. Crazy A’s glare narrowed, daring him to do something. The temptation to take that dare was strong, but instead Anteros exhaled through his nose and stepped off.

“I fucked up one time. Look”—he went to the same side of the wall as Crazy A, leaned against it so their shoulders touched—“I don’t want this bitch alive any more than you do. I want her dead. I’m sick of the flyers. Prince, princess, who the fuck cares? I made this Family.”

Anteros hoped his lies were landing, hoped he was mollifying the rabid dog that was Crazy A. When Crazy A was on his side, he was one of the biggest weapons in his arsenal. If he was loose…the nickname started to make sense. Lately the dog had begun biting Anteros’s wrist.

Neither said anything for a bit. The wall behind them knocked as two people fucked—two men now, it sounded like, and Crazy A shifted uncomfortably. When more plaster fell as the men pounded harder, he stood up and moved to the opposite side.

Just as Anteros was beginning to think he was out of options for dealing with Crazy A, an idea came to him. It would be risky, but then sitting around and hoping Crazy A believed his lies risked having to deal with a rabid and out of control enemy. With everything going on, he didn’t need to add that shit to his plate.

“We’ve been focusing on Lucia and the symptoms of the war too much,” Anteros said. “I want you to end the disease. Find Francesca Notte and kill her.”

Crazy A lifted his head, looking at Anteros with interest. “No easy feat. She’s guarded twenty-four seven in that castle they call a club.”

“You can do it,” Anteros said. It grew quiet, only muffled sounds of pleasure able to be heard. Crazy A’s eyes slimmed almost imperceptibly and just as Anteros wondered if his deception had taken root, the Wolf nodded slowly.

Without another word, Crazy A stood off the wall and walked away. Anteros watched him disappear down the hallway like a ghost, unsure if he’d really swallowed the lie, but at least certain he was going to play along. That would have to suffice.

After the hellish day, all Anteros wanted to do was take a fucking shower and sleep off his injuries. Instead, he limped over to the side of the club where Nikolai slept and pushed his door open. The room was empty. The linens on Nikolai’s bed were smooth, the corners tight as if it hadn’t been slept in.

Anteros propped himself against the doorframe and checked his watch, cracked from the explosion. It was almost three in the morning. As he was about to leave and have the Wolves search for Nikolai, the boy appeared.

“Where the fuck were you?” he asked as Nikolai came into the room. Sweat misted his brow like he’d been running.

“Checking into things for the bomb,” Nikolai said, wiping his forehead. The motion streaked char across his face; uneven, distressed lines of black. Anteros zeroed in on them, remembering what Pretty Boy had said about Nikolai being away from the explosion.

“Why are you covered in soot?” Anteros asked.

Nikolai looked at his fingers. “It must have gotten on me during the aftermath. It was everywhere at that point—on the sidewalk, on the Wolves.”

So far back in the building, the heater’s high, warbling hiss was loud and angry when it came on. Nikolai’s cool green eyes met Anteros’s stare for a long second before he bent his head deferentially. His curls shivered with the air now blowing out of the vents.

“I’m ashamed of how easily I went down,” Nikolai whispered.

Anteros studied the boy a beat, then nodded and changed the subject. “I need you to keep an eye on Crazy A.”

Nikolai looked up, eyes widening almost imperceptibly. “Yes, is there…” He hesitated. “Is there anything I should be looking for in particular?”

“Just watch him, tell me everything he does.” Nikolai bowed his head in acquiescence and Anteros walked back to his wing, thinking about the events he’d put into motion. Anteros had been much younger than Nikolai when he’d started plotting against Lucio, and he wasn’t about to have that happen to him. He wanted to see what the boy brought him, but more than that, it would be a good opportunity to give Nikolai some responsibility.

Crazy A was crafty. He wasn’t The Council, he wasn’t Lucio—he wasn’t like anyone at all. He wouldn’t go down with just a fight, he would destroy the world in the chaos that had become his soul. Anteros hoped it wouldn’t come to death, hoped he could keep the Wolf on his leash, but in the end, if he had to kill Crazy A, it would be done correctly.

* * *

It was morning before he realized he’d missed the meet with Frankie. Now light streamed in through the one window high up on the wall, creating a bright yellow square on the floor. He sat up swiftly and reached for the phone—twenty unread texts, the last one sent at five in the morning. Anteros hopped off the couch, threw on a hoodie and jeans, and headed for the garage. She was probably gone, but he had to see.

“Everything all right?” Crazy A called out as Anteros rushed down the hall past him and Pretty Boy.

Anteros stalled. “Yes.”

“Looks important,” Crazy A said. “Need backup?” Anteros slowly turned around, facing them in the dusky hallway.

“If you think going for a ride is important.” Anteros used to go out on his bike to clear his head all the time, but just like everything else about his old self, after assuming Lucio’s responsibilities, he’d stopped. Two beats passed, Crazy A’s stare vivid in the dark, and then Pretty Boy spoke.

“Cool. Glad to see you’re riding again.”

“Yeah.” Crazy A shifted. “You gonna be back in time for the meeting?”

“What do you think?” Anteros continued toward the garage, not giving them a chance to question, not giving himself a chance to rethink what he was doing. He pulled open the door just as Pretty Boy called after him,

“Let Tough Tino follow you. After the bomb, you could use the extra security.”

“I can handle myself.” The door shut with his reply and Anteros hopped on his bike, peeling out of the garage. The place wasn’t far, as Frankie had specified, just around the corner from Lucia’s club at an old, boarded up church.

When Anteros pushed the door open, the creak echoed. Bright yellow light poured through open slats in the roof and bits of snow from the previous night dusted the ground. He could sense the place wasn’t empty by the tug in his gut, the painful but pleasurable ache that tore through his insides. She was barely a shadow in a pew at the very front, but even her shadow caused a wildfire of emotion inside him.

He walked up the center aisle, footsteps echoing in the vaulted room. With her head down, her face was masked under a sheath of silky curls. She sat beneath a great stained glass window that bathed her skin in jewel-toned colors of reds, oranges, and yellows. Instead of the usual religious depiction, the window portrayed a phoenix rising from flames and ashes. Sunlight streaming through the glass ignited the flames and feathers.

“I should have left,” Frankie said, not bothering to turn around. “Lucia will know I’ve been gone now.” The tip of her nose broke through the curtain of her silky locks as she spoke, painted pink by the window’s light, and the arch of her honey neck was illumined by the light.

“Why didn’t you?” he asked, putting his hand on the pew’s edge. Frankie lifted her head toward the window, a shifting kaleidoscope of colors painting her delicate features. Anteros waited for her to turn to him, but she just stared out the window.

“I stayed because I’m an—” She stopped midsentence, looking at him at last. Her brows drew together, mouth parting and eyes going wide.

“What?” He straightened, expecting to find someone in the empty church with them, before realizing it was him she was alarmed by. He instantly regretted that he’d only thrown on a hoodie. He hadn’t expected her to care about his injuries—wasn’t accustomed to it. Anteros had grown up without people caring, and that had never changed. He’d parked and walked the block to the chapel, and that only proved he could be bleeding on the streets and no one gave a shit. Even still, the Wolves didn’t care about him they cared about what his death meant for them.

She ran to him. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” He turned to walk away but had to take a seat so she wouldn’t see his limp. He really should have had the fucking doctor check him out.

“Nothing?” Her voice rose with incredulity. “You’re limping and covered in blood. Don’t fucking lie to me.” Anteros mentally winced that she’d seen him limp. “Are you really going to sit here and fucking—”

“A bomb,” he said at last.

“A bomb?” She rushed to him and dropped to her knees. Frankie gently touched the still very bloody gash just below his collarbone and his eyes narrowed while she fussed. Had she really not known? That was somehow more horrifying than the idea of her not warning him. Before he could ask, she stood up and disappeared into a back room.

Minutes later Frankie returned, a bottle of water and a towel in her hands. No words were shared as she got to her knees, setting the bottle next to her. She poured the clear liquid on the towel and then placed the cloth to his chest. She paused, their eyes locking, and exchanged a silent question. Anteros studied her, on her knees and ready to clean his wounds. For some reason, this was more disturbing to him than when she’d held a knife to his throat, but the ardent affection in her blue eyes had him nodding. She placed the towel to his chest.

His brows shrouded as he watched her undo the blood sticking to his hair and skin. Still lightly running the washcloth over the gash with the pad of her finger, her other hand lightly caressed him. Her eyes traveled him—the bruises, the cuts, the blood—and her face transformed in worry, but she stayed silent.

Anteros was transfixed as she dutifully cleaned away the blood. The white towel tinged pink, then red. He focused on her neck, noticing how she still wore the pendant he’d given her. She’d worn it the night she came for him, worn it the night he came to her. He wanted to poke and question why she still hadn’t taken it off, but that combined with the tender way she cleaned him made him too raw.

“What are you doing?” His voice was gruff, but for a different reason than the hurt from the bomb.

“I—” Frankie broke off, looking at the rag in her hands. “I don’t know.” She held the washcloth tighter, gripped it until the fibers came apart. “I’m already going to be in trouble with Lucia. She knows I was gone all night. What if we stayed here today and…” She placed her palm on his forearm. “And talked?” Frankie’s eyes were big and searching. She wanted to stay? With him? And fucking talk?

Anteros was rarely speechless in life, but at that moment he was. The urge to stay was practically ripping him to shreds. No one had ever wanted to simply talk to him, but the timing wasn’t right. He had to be back for the meeting. If he disappeared for the day, it would ruin everything. Crazy A would never believe another lie.

“We’ve never really been the type to talk before,” he said, pushing her off. A flit of emotion passed across her face, harsh and painful like a whip crack, and Anteros knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. His hand shot out, but she pushed him away.

“I don’t know what I was thinking.” She set the rag down, shaking her head. Her eyes were rimmed red, making the blue even starker, the pain stark and bright like stars falling from the sky.

“Frankie—”

“I waited for you for hours,” she interrupted, eyebrows drawn. “God, I’m a fucking idiot.” She scoffed, but it wasn’t for him—she was upset with herself. Before he could react, she stood up, knocking over the bottle of water, and sprinted down the aisle. Frankie pushed open the double doors, disappearing before they’d shut.

“Fuck!” Anteros exhaled and slammed a hand into the pew. All he’d been trying to do was avoid risking her goddamn life, but instead he’d lost her entirely.