“Tate. Please.”
“No, Glo. He’s using you.”
“He wants to set up a meeting with my mother and you, to tell his side of the story.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Not even a little, Mr. I-Got-Shot-Today!”
He drew in a breath. “I’m sorry. I should have told you I was going to Vegas.”
“You think?” And now she was crying. “I had a dream, Tate. A dream that you were going to get killed.”
“By Sloan, not Slava—”
“It doesn’t matter! Don’t you think, for one second, you might have thought twice about hunting down someone who had tried to kill you? And nearly succeeded. I’ll never forget sitting in that hospital, watching you try to breathe. Try. To. Breathe. Do you have any idea what that feels like? To fear that your next breath will be your last?”
“Glo—”
“It shattered me, Tate. I still have nightmares about it. I can’t…I can’t go through that again. Ever.”
“Glo. I’m not going to die.”
“Don’t even—”
“I’m fine!”
Silence.
He waited for a response, anything, but the line was painfully quiet. “Glo? Are you there?”
He looked at his phone.
She’d hung up.
What the— He pushed Redial and it went to voicemail.
Nice, Glo. But he waited for the voicemail to pick up. “You’d better be just mad at me and not suddenly dodging a bullet or something. Text me back, tell me you’re okay, or I’m on the next plane to Tennessee.”
He hung up and waited.
And waited.
And when the text finally came in, he wanted to throw his phone across the room.
I’m fine. But we’re not.
The wedding is off.
RJ just couldn’t escape the feel of York’s body covering hers, his legs bracketing her hips, his arms around her shoulders, his breath against her neck, protecting her with his body.
And sure, the word sniper hung in the air, but still, even after she’d told him she was fine, he hadn’t moved. As if reluctant to let her go. And oh, she hoped it was more than fear but something deeper that made York hang on to her.
The thing that had made his heart remember her even when his brain couldn’t.
She spotted him, a dark shadow sitting by the pool on a lounger, staring at the water. He didn’t even move as she came up and sat down on a nearby lounger.
For a long while, she said nothing. Because Tate had probably been right when he suggested giving York space. But despite Vicktor’s words, she had no doubt that that shot had been aimed today for York.
Not Slava. And certainly not Tate—that was crazy.
Damien Gustov was after York, she knew it in her bones.
“Who is Martin?”
The question jerked her out of her thoughts. She looked over to the man who had changed into a T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, flip-flops.
He looked very much like the Mack Jones he’d left behind.
But given the look on his face, Mack was long gone, replaced with someone dark, brooding.
Broken.
“Why?”
“I keep seeing this face. Tough guy, dark hair, square jaw. And I hear myself call him Martin. But it’s just a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit anywhere.”
“You used to work with him in Russia. When you were in the CIA.”
“So I trusted him.”
“I’m not sure. You did seem surprised to see him.”
He nodded. “That’s what I feel when I think of him. Surprise.”
“Crowley said he thought Martin might have been the one to blow your cover with the Bratva, but he wasn’t sure.”
York looked over at her. “Blow my cover? I worked undercover?”
“That’s how your wife and son were killed. Your informant turned on you—”
“Please don’t tell me any more.”
She closed her mouth, her throat tightening as he sank his face into his hands. He was so strong, it undid her to see him unraveled. “York, that was a long, long time ago.”
Oh, she longed to touch him. To climb onto the back of his lounger, wrap her arms around him, and pull him against herself. Help him hold on as he faced his past.
“I’m so sorry I tracked you down.”
He looked up then, his eyes hot. “Are you kidding me? What if Slava had found me first and killed Jethro? Or Raven? Or you?” He got up from the chair, pacing hard away from her. “At least you gave me warning.”
“Or led him right to you.”
He rounded. “He would have found me. That much I know. And killed people I care about.” He took a breath. “Like you.” He bent over and grabbed his knees. “It still makes me sick to think how close he came today.”
She too found her feet. “I’m fine. And so are you, and even Tate. And we’re going to find Gustov and stop him from hurting anyone else.”
He stood up. Then, crazily, he walked over to her and pulled her to himself.
Just held her in a grip so tight it nearly knocked the wind from her. “I can’t watch you die, RJ.”
She put her arms around his waist, unnerved. “You won’t.”
“Please go home.”
She stilled. Pushed away from him. “No, York. And I’m not having this fight with you. I already had it with Tate and won, and FYI, we had this conversation in Russia and there is no way, not a chance, I’m leaving you again, so—”
He swore. Something so crisp and raw and dark it startled her, her mouth opening. His gaze pinned her. “Don’t you get it? I watched my mother die right before my eyes. I watched someone beat her to death! And I can’t…” He held up his hand. Turned and walked away from her.
She couldn’t move. What—? Because he’d told her his parents had been killed, but… “Are you sure, York?”
He stood with his back to her. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I think so.” He turned. “I keep having this recurring nightmare of watching a woman getting beaten and yelling for me to run.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “And I can’t shake the feeling that it’s my fault.”
“No, York.” And even the warning in his eyes couldn’t stop her from walking over to him. “That wasn’t your fault. York, you did not get your parents killed!”
He drew in a breath, met her eyes with his. “How do you know that?”
She opened her mouth.
“Because I’m a good man?” He finger quoted the words. “Yeah, right. You said that before, and I made the mistake of believing you.” He shook his head. “Not again, sweetheart.”
He was morphing right before her eyes into the jaded, angry, hard-edged man who’d scooped her off a Russian street because he had to.
Not because he wanted to.
Her chest burned, tightened. “York, listen to me. You are a good man. I know you—better than you know yourself right now. All your memories lack context.”
“I’m a murderer.”
“You were a…transporter.”
He stared at her, something of horror on his face. “What does that even mean?”