Savage Hearts: Chapter 43

Breathing easier, I disconnect with Spider and turn to look at Sloane.

She stands still as a statue, her eyes searching my face. From the moment we got the call yesterday that Spider had located Riley and was going to get her, she hasn’t eaten, slept, or spoken a word. The only thing she’s done is wring her hands and pace.

I say softly, “He has her.”

She sinks to her knees on the carpet, covers her face in her hands, and breaks into tears.

I kneel beside her and hold her, rocking her silently in my arms.

When the worst of it is over and she’s sniffling, I murmur, “They’re in the air now. They’ll be here in about nine hours.”

“How is she? Did he say anything? Is she hurt?”

“She didn’t appear to be hurt.” I hesitate, not wanting to fan the flames. “But he did say she was hysterical.”

Sloane lifts her head and stares at me with watery red eyes. “Well, no wonder! After what she must’ve been through, she’s hysterical with relief, the poor baby! She’s dying to come home!”

That wasn’t exactly the way Spider put it, but I’ll hold off on that. I need to set eyes on Riley myself to judge her condition.

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

She says irritably, “I’ll sleep when she’s here. If I were to lie down now, I’d just stare at the ceiling.” She groans and covers her face with her hands again. “Oh, god. She hates me. She has to. It’s my fault all this happened in the first place.”

“Let’s focus on the positive, love. We got her. She’s coming home. Come on, let’s get you to the sofa. I’ll make you a drink.”

I help her stand and settle her onto the couch. Then I kiss her forehead and go into the kitchen to pour us a healthy measure of whiskey.

I have a feeling we’re going to need it.

Ten hours later, I’m proven right when Riley bursts through the door ahead of Spider, channeling the energies of Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games and the samurai-sword-wielding assassin lass from Kill Bill.

If they were both high on methamphetamines and had been living in a tree in the woods.

“Send me back!” she shouts as a greeting. “Send me back right this fucking minute!”

Then she stands in the middle of the living room with her legs spread open and her hands clenched to fists, breathing hard and growling.

Sloane is frozen in shock beside me. Her lips are parted and her eyes are wide. She can’t believe what she’s seeing.

Understandable, because her little sister obviously isn’t her little sister anymore.

She’s transformed into some kind of punk pixie version of Rambo.

Her bleached hair shows three inches of darker roots. She stands taller because of the military-style boots she’s wearing. Her trousers are the tactical kind hunters wear—with lots of Velcro pockets for gear—and her tight black T-shirt shows off her surprisingly well-developed biceps muscles.

And those eyes.

Christ.

They were always hidden behind thick glasses before, but now the glasses are gone and her eyes are flashing golden-bronze fury all over the room.

Sloane says tentatively, “Riley?”

Riley’s furious gaze slashes to her. She looks her up and down, then says curtly, “Hi, Hollywood. Tell your man to get my ass back onto a plane to Russia within the hour, or I’ll burn this house down.”

Spider walks slowly into the room behind Riley. Horrified, Sloane looks to him for help.

He shakes his head. “She’s been like this since I picked her up.”

“Abducted me,” Riley corrects.

Sloane cries, “He rescued you.”

“Really? Did he ask me if I wanted to leave? Because if he did, I sure didn’t hear it. I was too busy kicking and screaming.”

“Of course you wanted to leave! You were in Russia!”

“Yeah. Guess what? That’s where I live now.”

Sloane puts a hand to her throat and pauses for a beat to gather herself. “Let’s take a step back for a minute. Declan, will you please get us all a drink?”

Riley says, “I can’t drink alcohol anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I’m missing a kidney.”

It wasn’t meant for him, but Spider stiffens anyway. He snaps, “You know it was Malek who told me where to find you, right? He called me. Himself.”

The look Riley sends him could melt steel. “Of course I know it was him. Nobody else is that selfless.”

Spider’s face turns red. He steps forward, bristling. “Selfless? The murderer who broke into your bedroom and ran off with you in the middle of the night is selfless?”

Riley looks at him for a long moment, then says quietly, “You’re a good man. And I know you wanted to help me by going to Russia, so thank you for that. But you and your boss here have both killed people, so don’t sling the word ‘murderer’ around like you’re on some kind of moral high ground. Malek Antonov is the best man I’ve ever met.”

Spider looks like he just took a kick to the gut.

Riley turns back to me and pins me in a death glare so forceful, I almost step back.

“And you.”

“Me? What did I do?”

She shakes her head like she’s deeply disappointed in me. “This job you have. This thing you do for a living. Mr. Bigshot Mob Boss. You chose this life, didn’t you?”

I feel like this is a trick question, so I fold my arms over my chest and stare her down.

She doesn’t look intimidated.

“That’s what I thought. Nobody forced you into it. Nobody put a gun to your whole family’s heads, did they? Nobody said ‘Become my personal hitman or everyone you love dies.’ But that’s exactly what happened to Mal. Everything he’s ever done has been in service to other people, including what he just did for me.”

“Let’s not paint too rosy a picture, lass. He went to the Bahamas to kill me, remember? Who was that in service to, if not himself?”

Her eyes glitter. Her voice drops. “You killed his brother. His last living relative. A person he loved and protected his entire life. So yes, he came here to get revenge, but he didn’t. Can you guess why?”

When nobody says anything, her voice rises.

“The reason is standing right in front of you. I asked him not to kill you, you and Spider both, and he didn’t, because he didn’t want to fucking disappoint me. So you’re welcome for saving your lives. Now get me on a plane back to Russia!”

After a long, silent moment, Sloane turns and looks at me.

“How fun,” she says drily. “Stockholm Syndrome runs in the family.”