“He thought it was a joke. That I was spewing crazy.” His breath catches. “I fucking wish I was. But Rook has always had my back. He’s the oldest.”

“Oldest?”

“Hawk is in the middle, twenty-one like me but a few months older. Rook is twenty-three. He was always our big brother, our protector. He was…” A tremor goes through him. “The tattoos were his idea. The roses. Sub rosa, said the Romans. What you say under the roses remains a secret. We told our secrets to each other and got the ink, and now he’s—”

“Shh.” I press myself to him. His skin is cold, and I wind my arms around him, trying to warm him up. “Everything will be okay.” Says the one who’s wanted by the Chinese mafia. Jesus. “Let’s see how he is first. He’s not dead. We have to hope for the best.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” His breath is warm on top of my head. “We have secrets. I have secrets. You told me everything, but I haven’t. Not yet.”

“Told you trust takes time,” I whisper.

“I do trust you, dammit.” He sighs. “I only hoped you’d never have to get involved in this shit.”

“It’s okay.” It’s time to stop running and hiding. So I look up at him and smile. “I’ll take a risk on you.”

Chapter Sixteen

STORM

By the time we reach the hospital, I’ve gotten myself mostly under control. My hands aren’t trembling anymore, but my chest still feels crushed.

I called Rook an asshole. Told him off. Threw him out. When all he was trying to do was look out for me, like every time.

Releasing Raylin, I fumble with the car door and throw it open before the driver reaches my side to open it for me. Cool air rushes in, and I draw deep breaths to clear the fuzziness in my head.

I step out, and Raylin is already hurrying around the car to reach me. Taking her hand, I walk with her to the emergencies entrance.

Blood. Gore. Death. Blurry memories of twisted bodies, bones sticking out of mangled flesh, their eyes open, faces twisted in a grimace of violence and death.

My parents’ faces.

“Storm.” Raylin tugs on my hand, worry etched on her fine features. “Come on.”

Didn’t realize I’d stopped walking.

What I want is to run. Take off running, run until my lungs burn and my muscles tremble. Until I can empty my mind.

Instead I nod and follow her. Need to snap out of it. Guess the explosion back at the apartment shook me worse than I thought—and now this.

If Rook doesn’t make it…

The doors slide open in front of us, then close behind us. Nope, haven’t made it out of the strange daze. I’m walking through blood, and every face staring back at me is the face of a corpse, gray and open-mouthed, crimson dripping down their necks, soaking their clothes, and then—

“Mr. Jordan. This way, please.”

I blink at the tiny triage nurse. “We’re here for—”

“Mr. Roderick Carter. We have been expecting you. You are on the list of next-of-kin.”

“Roderick Carter?” Raylin whispers. “That’s Rook?”

“Yeah.” So much I need to tell her. So much I never thought I had to recall.

Because I didn’t think she was staying. Didn’t think I could keep her. Still not sure she’ll want to stay, even if we manage to get the triad off our backs, because maybe I’m not crazy after all, and the danger is real and much worse than I thought.

I never got to keep much, except money from deals with the devil and jumbled, bloodied memories. Never got to keep people I love, except for my two friends, and now one of them is lying in hospital because of me, and I don’t even know if he’ll pull through. The thought turns my insides to ice.

Fuck. We fall behind the nurse, winding through too-bright hallways, past open doors and exhausted people. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Yeah, that about sums my thoughts—for this day, this year and my whole damn life.

***

“He’ll be okay,” Raylin tells me for what has to be the twentieth time. “You heard the doctors.”

I’m leaning against the door frame to Rook’s private room, arms folded over my chest. The bandaged wound on my back burns, and my leg throbs, and it’s a background music, a symphony of misery.

Rook will be okay. I repeat the words in my head, forcing them to sink through the morass. He broke his collarbone and arm, and more importantly he banged his head pretty good, but he’s showing signs of waking up. The doctors are confident he’ll be awake in time for the evening news.

Troy Jordan’s limo went off the road today. Hit a lamppost. Driver dead. No news about the infamous Troy Jordan himself.

Until he walked out of the hospital, and everyone knew he was fine.

If they haven’t swung by to ask and know the answer already. If they aren’t waiting outside to finish him off. Because, hey, how much patience can this fucking killer have, making murder attempt after murder attempt look like an accident? How long until that patience runs out and I get a real big motherfucking bomb planted in my car or apartment, or a sniper takes me out?

I bet an examination of the limo will show brake failure and nothing suspicious.

Why aren’t I dead yet? Is their plan to get me into a madhouse, first?

Shit. I rake a hand through my short hair, tugging, the sharp pinpoints of pain a welcome distraction. Raylin comes closer, and I lunge for her hand, pull her to me. Warm, soft, bright. Right now she’s the only constant, the only anchor in a world spinning out of control.

“We’re going to a hotel,” I hear myself say. “Until we decide what to do.”

“And you’ll tell me the rest?” she asks softly. “About the roses and the secrets.”

My throat is closing. Rook is bruised and battered lying there on the bed, one arm in a cast and sling, unaware.

“I will.” No point in putting it off any longer. “But first we need to see about the triad.”

“And how are we gonna do that?” If anything, her voice has gone even softer, and fear shines through her eyes.

“Hawk.”

“What can Hawk do?”

“The real question is,” a deep voice says from behind us, “is there anything Hawk can’t do? And to save you the trouble of thinking about this, the answer is no, not really. Right, Storm?”

Bastard. He’s right fucking there, winking at us, blond hair sticking up like a hedgehog, and a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

And I’m so damn glad he’s back, because he’s right. If anyone can pull this off—if anyone can deal with the triad and convince them to get off our backs, make a deal and let Raylin go—then he’s the one.

***

“Tonight we rest,” Hawk is saying as we head out of the hospital, round a personnel side entrance, hoping to avoid any paparazzi who may have gotten whiff of this new story. “I send out feelers to see who I could talk to, and tomorrow you go and arrange for the money we will need.”

Right. It’s a bit more than I can get from an ATM. Damn, I have to go to a bank. Talk about making myself into an easy target. And that thought leads to this one:

“Do you believe me now, asshole?” I jab a finger at Hawk, and he dodges the jab easily, dancing out of the way. “About the attacks?”

Rook would believe me if he was awake and able to think.

Dammit, Rook. He did wake up before we left, but he was instantly pumped full of sedatives and painkillers until he was out like a light once more, and we were shooed out.

“I’m… reserving judgment.” Hawk glances at my bodyguards who are following us through the hospital at a discreet distance, brows heavy over his eyes. “Let’s say you’re right, and this brake failure wasn’t natural, then—”

“Natural. You think my cars aren’t checked regularly?”

“You were away, Storm. Fucking hell, lots could have happened without your supervision, know what I mean?” He lifts his hands and turns back to stride toward the automatic doors. “I’m just saying. You may be right, and we’d better be careful.”