15. Chapter 15

15

Wren

T he air reeks of cheap grease and gasoline, making my nose wrinkle.

It's summer. The sun's a fucking joke, barely hanging on to the sky like it's too tired to keep shining. Shadows crawl across the shithole we call home, stretching over rusted trailers and patchy dirt yards.

"Watch this, squirt," I say, flicking my wrist. The rock pings off the barrel with a hollow clank. Em's face lights up like I just performed a magic trick, her giggles cutting through the stale air.

I'm trying to teach Em how to throw a rock just right so it will skip across the barrel's rim. Em, small and wide-eyed, with golden curls, is more focused on keeping up with my quick movements.

"My turn! My turn!" little 5-year-old Em squeals, grabbing a handful of pebbles.

I'm about to show her how to hold them when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Shit . Jake and his asshole buddies are slithering out from behind Old Man Miller's trailer. My stomach drops.

Jake, the lanky prick, struts over like he owns the place. Bobby and Tom flank him, snickering like the braindead hyenas they are.

"Well, well. If it ain't the trailer trash sisters," Jake sneers, his eyes darting between Em and me.

I step in front of Em, my jaw clenched so tight it hurts. "The hell you want, Jake?"

He grins, showing off his yellow teeth. "Aw, don't be like that. We just wanted to see if the little freaks wanted to play."

Before I can blink, he shoves me hard. I stumble back, my ass hitting the ground. Em lets out a little gasp.

"Leave us alone, you meanie!" Em shouts, her voice shaking.

Jake's eyes narrow. "Shut your trap, brat. Before I shut it for you."

I scramble to my feet, putting myself between Jake and Em. "Touch her, and I'll rip your fucking balls off," I snarl.

Jake's three years older, and at 12, he's a giant compared to me. But backing down? Never.

Jake's face twists with rage. His fist comes out of nowhere, catching me in the shoulder. Pain explodes through my arm, but I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out.

Em's trembling behind me, but she steps up, her little hand grabbing onto my shirt. "Stop it! Leave Wren alone!"

Jake laughs, a sound that makes my skin crawl. "Or what? You gonna cry to Mommy and Daddy?"

He reaches for Em, but I'm quicker this time. I shove him back hard enough to make him stumble. "I said don't fucking touch her!"

Jake's eyes flash with anger. He lunges forward, his open palm connecting with Em's cheek with a sickening smack. She hits the ground, a cry tearing from her throat.

Something in me snaps. I launch myself at Jake, all rational thought gone. My fists connect with whatever I can reach—his face, his chest, his gut. I'm vaguely aware of Bobby and Tom grabbing my arms, yanking me back.

Jake's fist slams into my jaw, stars exploding behind my eyes as I hit the ground. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

I grunt, but my body's already pushing off the ground. I lift my face and glare at them like I'm ready to tear them apart.

"Stay down, freaks," Jake spits, wiping blood from his nose. He turns away, Bobby and Tom trailing after him like lost puppies.

Standing up, I spit blood onto the gravel. Em crawls over to me, her face streaked with tears and dirt.

"I'm sorry, Wren," she hiccups, throwing her arms around my neck. "I tried to help. I really did."

I wrap my arms around her, ignoring the throbbing in my jaw. "You did good, squirt," I mumble. "You stood up to those assholes. Don't ever stop doing that, you hear me?"

Em nods, burying her face in my neck. I hold her tight, my own eyes burning with unshed tears.

The sting on my face sharpens, dragging me out of the haze. Something wet swipes across my lips, and I grunt, trying to shake it off. The comforting weight of Em vanishes like smoke, leaving me cold and disoriented.

Feeling more wetness on my face. I groan. A familiar scent hits my nose first—cigarettes, musk, and… antiseptic?

My eyes crack open, and the world's a blurry mess.

I find myself staring into a pair of intense blue eyes. D. The memories come rushing back—the Russians, the fight, the choking darkness.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," D mutters, his rough voice oddly gentle. He's dabbing at my split lip with a damp cloth.

I jerk away from his touch, my heart racing. "Em!" I shout, trying to sit up. My head spins, and I nearly topple over. "Fuck, I need to get to Em before—"

D's strong hands steady me. "Easy there, tigress. Your sister's safe. I… made sure of it."

I blink at him, my foggy brain struggling to catch up. "What?"

How'd he know about Em?

I blink hard, trying to focus. The room slowly comes into view, and I realize I'm not in my shitty apartment. This place is… fancy. Too fancy. I'm sprawled on a black leather sofa that probably costs more than I make in a lifetime.

"Where the fuck am I?" I demand, voice raspy.

Where am I? That's a damn good question. I look around, taking in the massive windows overlooking the city, the sleek furniture that screams money.

D takes a deep breath, his massive chest expanding. He's still sitting on a wooden coffee table next to the sofa, a blanket draped over my chest.

"At my place," he replies simply, his hands slowly relaxing as I stop fighting against him.

I narrow my eyes at him. "And how exactly did I end up here? Last I remember, I was getting choked out in an alley by some Russian asshole."

D's eyes suddenly darken, but he looks away quickly. When he turns back, his face is a mask. "I was just …passing by."

"Passing by, huh?" I snort. "That sounds real fucking convincing."

His jaw tightens, but I don't give a shit about his hurt feelings right now. My family's in danger, and that's all that matters.

"How?" I croak out, my throat dry as sandpaper.

D snorts like he's talking about squashing a bug. "Let's just say the Petrov boys learned what happens when you fuck with things that don't belong to you."

I squint at him, noticing the fresh bruises on his knuckles, the small cut above his eyebrow. "What did you do?"

He shrugs, a cold, vicious glint in his eye. "Taught them some manners. Broke a few bones, maybe a jaw or two. They only realized who I was after I shattered one of the mudak who'd attacked you earlier…"

He stops abruptly, his intense gaze boring into mine. Then he sits up, taking a deep breath like he's trying to rein himself in.

Was that… worry I saw flicker across his face? Fuck that. Guys like him don't give two shits… about anyone.

He coughs, looking away for a moment. When his eyes find mine again, they drop to my tits before snapping back up.

Real fucking subtle, asshole.

"Ugh, what if those shitheads come back?" I groan, wincing as I try to sit up. "I can't deal with this crap, not with Em to look after."

D's face hardens, his jaw clenching.

"They won't," he growls, voice low and dangerous. "Fucking idiots nearly pissed themselves when they heard the name Ivankov. Trust me, they won't be stupid enough to try again."

My stomach drops. Great, from one Russian mafia lapdog to the big bad wolf himself. What is this, National Fuck-With-Wren's-Life Day? But still, I need to be sure…

"Those assholes won't be touching you or anyone else for a long time," D adds. He cracks his knuckles, a smirk playing on his lips that's anything but friendly.

Fuck me. This guy's not playing around. Part of me wants to run, but another part—

No. Shut it down, Wren. You've got more important shit to deal with.

D's hand suddenly slides under my head, gently pushing me to a sitting position. His fingers brush against my neck, sending a jolt through my body. I catch a whiff of his scent—leather, gunpowder, and something distinctly male. It makes my head spin. Or maybe that's just the concussion talking.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to focus. No time to get all weak-kneed over some guy's cologne, even if it does wrap around me like a goddamn security blanket. There's too much shit on the line.

"Well, aren't you my knight in blood-stained armor…" I spit out, locking eyes with him. His gaze is so intense it's like staring into the sun.

I freeze, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is. So fucking big. My heart's doing gymnastics in my chest like it's auditioning for the Olympics.

What the hell?

I jerk my gaze away, staring at a spot on the wall like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"A ‘thanks' won't kill ya, princess," D rumbles, "Or is gratitude not part of your charming repertoire?"

Internally, I snort. Always heard Ivankov's attack dog was about as warm and cuddly as a rabid wolverine. Guess the rumors weren't exaggerating.

I know I should say thanks. It's what normal people do, right? But the words stick in my throat like razor blades. Nobody ever helps without wanting something, and I'm fresh out of favors to give.