27. Three a.m.

TWENTY-SEVEN

THREE A.M.

GENEVIEVE

I can’t sleep.

I got spoiled. Assuming I already wasn’t, ever since the night I slept over at Cross’s apartment a week ago, I’ve gotten used to snuggling up against him, sleeping in his arms. There was something different about it, too. When we were being held captive by Winter, we were clinging to each other because we were all each other had.

Now? It’s still so new, knowing that Cross is mine and that I’m his, but when we’re in the same bed—whether we’re sleeping or fucking—there’s such a beauty in the fact that we don’t have to do this. We get to do this. We’re free to choose each other.

Damien still won’t budge when it comes to letting Cross stay over, and since he’s more than happy to host me, I’ve spent every night in his apartment this past week—until tonight.

I knew better than to try and convince myself that I could sleep with Cross, then get up bright and early to prepare for my meet with Director Adamson of the Riverside Ballet Corps. I need to be in top form, stretched out, limber, and ready to shine in case he auditions me for a place in his company on the spot. Cross offered to drive me in the morning if I stayed over, but I had to refuse.

I have a routine. It’s the same one I’ve done for every performance, every audition, every competition since I turned ballet from a hobby to a career. I know me. Cross would inevitably point out how sexy I am in the splits while I’m stretching, and I’ll end up showing him just how flexible I am in a way that’ll only leave me too tired to be at my best for the meeting.

Part of that routine? I’m in bed by nine-thirty. Asleep by ten. With Orion curled up by my pillow, I managed it, though my sleep was fitful at best. I kept waking up, checking my phone to see the time, and rolling over again.

It’s three in the morning when something pulls me out of my slumber.

I scowl when I see the time. Three a.m.? Seriously? I don’t have to be up for three more hours to shower, stretch, and do my hair and makeup.

I’m on my back now, the weight of Orion pressed on my chest as he lays on top of me. As I toss my phone again, shifting my body enough to disturb the cat, he gets up, pressing down on my tits.

“Oh,” I mumble. “Get off, you butt.”

Orion stretches, his big, furry behind in my face. I shove his rump, and he turns, giving me a baleful look.

“You weigh, like, twenty pounds, Orion. You’re squishing my tit. Go.”

He pads down to the end of the bed, but right as I’m ready to move onto my side so I can get those three hours of sleep, I go still.

I hear voices.

My heart lodges in my throat. For a hot second, I’m back in the cell, only it’s dark instead of the constant bright lights that tortured us. Listening for footsteps, dreading that I would hear voices, hoping they would leave us alone…

Wait. I know those voices.

Damien. Savannah.

Why are they arguing in the hall outside of my room when they both know damn well that I need to sleep ?

I give them a couple of seconds to shut the fuck up, and when they don’t? I throw my comforter back, storm across my room until I’ve reached the door, and fling it open.

“Are you serious?” I demand. “This is the first role I’m looking to land in months , and you two decide to have a stupid lover’s quarrel outside of my room? What’s wrong with yours?”

Damien thins his lips. At first, I think it’s because I yelled at him, but he should be used to that by now. But then I notice the way that Savannah is glaring at him, Damien jutting his chin just so as if in defiance, and I know… I know that something’s wrong.

Savannah crosses her arms over her chest. “Tell her. Tell her now, Damien. Because, if you don’t, I will, and when Gen never forgives you for treating her like a kid about this … I won’t blame her.”

My stomach drops. “Dame? What’s going on?”

Damien takes a deep breath. “There’s nothing you can do now. Let me say that plain: I wanted to wait until the morning when we might know more, but as you see, my wife obviously disagrees. And…” he sighs. “Savannah is right. If it was her, I’d want to know.”

If it was her, I’d want to know …

I reach out, digging my nails in his arm. The fact that he’s wearing a button-down shirt and a pair of suit pants, like he was ready to head out at three a.m. should’ve been my first clue that something was wrong. Savannah is wearing an oversized t-shirt that she either slept in or must’ve just pulled on, but Damien is only missing his shoes.

“Cross,” I whisper. “What happened to Cross?”

He takes another, deeper breath, then says the four words that have my knees going weak beneath me as I fall into my brother’s arms:

“There’s been a fire.”

Cross isn’t dead. He can’t be.

So he’s not answering his phone. So Devil called Damien after the Springfield Fire Department got the blaze part way under control. As of three o’clock, when Damien got the call and debated with Savannah all the way up to my room whether or not he should tell me that Sinners & Saints is gone, there are still a few hot spots. The fire burned long enough, though, that if Cross was asleep in his bed when the fire broke out and he couldn’t escape, there’s no reason for anyone to check for survivors.

Which is fine. Because he’s not dead.

I know that man. The only time he sleeps, it’s when I’m with him. No way in hell did he miraculously beat his insomnia in time to die the same sort of death that’s haunted him since he was twelve. He had to have gotten out.

Does that explain why no one has heard from him? As the man who technically owns Sinners & Saints since it’s a Sinners Syndicate property, when the fire alarm went off, the company called Cross first, then Devil.

The mafia leader got in touch with Rolls McIntyre, Cross’s friend I haven’t met. I still haven’t. As the boss, Devil decided to come down to look at the fire himself. Rolls stayed back at the luxury apartment building where both he and Devil live with their families. He’s with his wife, plus Devil’s wife and kid, in case this is the next stage in a continued battle between the Springfield mafias and a Winter.

Damien didn’t even try to get me to go back to bed. There was a reason he got dressed before he came upstairs: because he knew damn well that I would insist on heading across Springfield the second I heard the news about the fire.

Five minutes after I pulled myself together, I was dressed, he had his shoes on, and we were on the way.

Time crawled. I must’ve dialed Cross’s phone at least a hundred time before we arrived at the end of the street. Two fire trucks blocked Damien from getting any closer, but before he even killed the engine, I was out of the car, running as close to the smoldering remains of the tattoo parlor as I could.

Damien left his door open, racing after me. Smart man. He knew what I was about to do, and if he hadn’t caught up to me, wrapping his arms around me to keep me from running inside, I would’ve done just that.

The fire’s out. Hours after it was set, it’s finally died—and I absolutely refuse to believe that Cross died first.

I fought Damien’s hold, of course. I needed to check for myself. If he was in there… I don’t know what I would do, but at least it would be better than not knowing.

Right?

Devil is standing with his back against his car, glaring at the ruined remains as if it owes him money. Damien keeps his voice low, saying something to the other leader, but over the roar of blood in my ears and devastation in my soul, I’m not listening to them. I’m just waiting for my brother to lose his concentration so that I can stomp on his instep, escape his hold, and get in that place.

And then the only sound I think could’ve made it through the noise filters its way through my consciousness and even if Damien was a fucking anaconda, he woulnd’t have been able to hold me any longer.

“Butterfly.”

Cross.

I break free of Damien, spin on my heel, and there he is.

He’s a fucking mess. One of his tatted arms has a long, raw burn on it. His black shirt is singed in places. His hair is sticking up, his face is dotted in… blood? Shit. Is that blood ? He’s flexing his right hand as he stalks toward me, and all I notice is that his knuckles are split before realization slams into me and relief nearly knocks my on my ass.

I knew it. I knew it.

He’s alive.

I throw myself at him, laughing and sobbing at the same time as I run my hands over his hair, his neck, his back. I kiss every inch of skin I can reach because, if I’m being real, I knew he wasn’t dead but could I really have been sure?

He’s murmuring my nickname over and over again, clutching me to him. He smells like smoke and oil, but he’s here, and he’s alive, and I almost want to throttle him for scaring the shit out of me.

Damien clears his throat. I nearly kick him to shut him up, but because he brought me here—and because he’s my brother and I do love him—I refrain from unleashing one of my arabesques straight to his nuts.

Instead, I pull back enough so that both Cross and I can see that Devil and Damien are right there.

Cross straightens up. Whether it’s because he’s facing my brother or his boss, I don’t know, but he throws an arm over my shoulder, tethering me to him, as he nods at the two men.

“So,” Devil rumbles, “you got out. I’d hoped so when the firefighters said the window was smashed and they didn’t do it. It didn’t look like it was from the fire.”

“No, boss,” Cross answers. “Someone jammed my window. I couldn’t go for the fire escape, so I threw my stool through the glass so I didn’t roast in there.”

Okay. I get that. But where the hell has he been since then? And why did he only just show up now ?

Before I can ask, Devil has another question for Cross.

“What do you think? Was it Winter?”

In the car, Damien said as much to me. That when he spoke to Devil, they came to the agreement that Winter had decided to get revenge on us for escaping him by targeting the easiest one of us to get to. And I’d been there with Cross… well, two birds with one stone.

I squeeze his side. “Winter tried to burn your place down with you in it?”

He shakes his head. “No. But Mickey Kelly sure as hell managed to pull it off.”

What?

I’m so stunned to hear that name that I just gape up at him.

Damien, however, looks at Cross and says: “Explain.”

He does. About how he was barely asleep when he woke up to the smell of smoke, just like I figured he would. He went right for the fire escape, and when he saw that the window leading outside was glued shut or locked or something, he didn’t waste time with it. He ran downstairs, saw the fire, and noticed Mickey Kelly smirking at him from the other side of the shop glass.

That’s when he grabbed his stool, smashed the glass, and, to put it bluntly, beat Mickey to death with his bare hands and the sidewalk street.

Cross gives me a sideways glance as he goes on to admit that, when he thought Mickey was still alive, he stole a car, threw Mickey in the trunk, drove him out of Springfield while only stopping long enough to steal some rope, a shovel, and a pair of shoes. By the time he arrived at the dumping point where he planned on torturing Mickey to find out what is plans were if he accomplished killing Cross—because seems like I was that sick fuck’s next target, whee—he was dead. Cross buried him, then?—

He rubs my bicep. “I had to make sure you were okay. My phone burned up in the fire. It was the middle of the night. I drove all the way to the East End to assure myself you were still sleeping soundly. When I saw your light was on, I got worried, because I knew you needed to sleep for your meet this morning.”

“Screw my meet,” I say. “I’m so fucking happy you’re okay.”

Cross kisses the top of my head. “You, too, butterfly. I came all the way back here since I didn’t want to break into your place in case you decided you got a taste for sleeping with the light on after Winter fucked with us.”

I snort, and he gives me his first grin since I saw him tonight. “See. Made you laugh.”

I know what he’s doing. I can’t only imagine how freaked out I looked before he showed up and proved he survived the fire, and even though I understand better what happened now, that doesn’t excuse the fact that I spent the last hour or so, losing my mind because I didn’t know where he was.

All along, Cross was afraid to treat me like my brother did. I guess he shouldn’t have worried, because of the two of us, I’m the Libellula. Which is why, now that I know he’s safe, I’m going to do everything to make sure I always know that.

Moving out from under his arm, I jab Cross in his butterfly-covered chest. “You’re getting a tracker.”

He raises his eyebrows. “What was that?”

“You heard me.”

From behind me, Devil makes an amused noise. “You want to give me one reason why I should let you track my artist?”

Crap. I forgot he was there.

Oh, well.

“Why?” I ask, whirling on him. My hands go straight to my hips. “The truce.”

Devil scratches his stubble-covered jaw. “I’m listening.”

“Springfield runs better when the Sinners and the Dragonflies work together,” I tell him.

“Seems like we’ve had nothing but fucking trouble since your brother put a gun to my wife’s head.”

I resist the urge to turn and give Damien a dirty look. You’d think that, after all I’ve seen and done and learned since I broke free from my cage, I wouldn’t be surprised at my brother’s ruthlessness.

And then one of his former rivals-turned-allies lets slip that he had a gun to his wife’s head. Or I remember that my first meeting with Damien’s wife was after she stabbed him in the side with his own knife, then he forced her to marry him—before ‘convincing’ her to blow him.

I shake my head. “Think that if you want. But you have to admit, Winter is still out there. He’s still a pain in our ass. Damien might’ve put a gun to your wife’s head, but he didn’t pull the trigger—and that’s when you were still considered rivals. Can you say the same about the head Snowflake freak?”

Devil’s expression turns murderous, and I finally think I understand why they call him by that name. If he sprouted a forked tail or horns right now, I wouldn’t be surprised at all.

“I will never let anyone get close enough to Ava again, he growls.

“Because you track her, don’t you?” I glance at Damien. “I know you and Savannah can find each other. Why can’t I find the man who means everything to me?” Back to Devil, and I amaze myself by not quailing under his stare. Damien doesn’t scare me. Devil? He’s terrifying . “You can track me if you want.”

“You wouldn’t let me,” my brother points out.

Yeah, well, obviously. If my brother could track my every move, I would’ve never had any freedom. He would’ve kept me locked up, safe and sound, and it wouldn’t have been necessary to have a tracker at all if I never left the third floor.

“I love him,” I say simply. “I love you, too, Dame, but not like I do Cross.” I turn, searching for him, unwilling to look away from him for too long in case he disappears again. When I see the love and affection and worry in his dark eyes… I fling myself at him, wrapping my arms around his waist, burying my face against his chest. He smells like smoke, another reminder of how close I came to losing him. “You’re mine.”

His arms close around me. Cross rests his chin on the top of my hair, giving me a squeeze as he whispers, “From the moment I drew that butterfly, I’ve been yours. Track me if you want. If I have it my way, I’ll never be apart from you again.”

Know what? I don’t care if it’s crazy. I don’t care it’s possessive. I don’t care if he decides that I’m too much to handle and he wants to get rid of me after all.

Good luck, babe.

Forever?

I’m going to hold him to it.