“Is that the twin one?”
“Yup.”
I waited, giving him space to decide if he wanted to elaborate. It was okay if he didn’t, but as it happened, it was me who checked out of the conversation, distracted by the bar doors opening for kick-out time.
Brothers filed out. Members. Hang-arounds. A few lingered until a raven-haired siren told them to fuck off.
Orla.
She stood on the stone steps, dark waves spilling down her back, leather jeans so tight they should’ve been illegal. Hand on her hip, she glared at the retreating men until they left her line of sight, then she scanned the yard, searching for something else.
For me.
Her gaze collided with mine, a dirty smirk playing on her red lips, despite the fact we’d never done more thankiss, naked, on every inch of skin we could humanly reach. Then it skipped past me, landing on Locke, and the world seemed to stop, to falter, to pause, before she descended the steps and crossed the yard.
“All hail the queen,” Rubi called from his position by Ranger.
Orla ignored him and daggered the Crows with her potent stare.
“I know you.” She pointed at Ranger. “You can stay.”
She didn’t say why. Didn’t need to. She was the queen, after all. Folk came next, and it didn’t strike her as strange that she didn’t know him. She accepted his handshake and friendly smile and moved on.
To the six-five blond epitome of masculinity beside me.
“Who are you?”
“Locke.”
He offered his tattooed hand. She took it in her own that was stained with just as much ink, and as her gaze raked over him, she didn’t let go.
Neither did he. His features didn’t move, but the brick wall he’d given me to this point didn’t seem to be there, and new heat flared in my gut—that burn I’d tried to ignore all night.
She sees it.
Of course she did. And I saw it in her. In the hot flare of her molten eyes and the tiny dart of her tongue as she wet her lips.
Her knowing smile as she walked away.
* * *
NOW
“You cannot smoke your cigarettes while you are healing. Or anything else.”
I blinked, anaesthesia still fogging my mind enough that I could almost convince myself that the brother leaning over my bed giving me earache was six foot five and blond.
But I was apparently tooawakefor that kind of dream, and all I got for the trouble of forcing my eyes open was Alexei’s malevolent glare.
I raised my hands in surrender. “I didn’t say anything about cigarettes.”
“Oh.” It was his turn to blink. “I thought you were listing your favourite things.”
“Eh?”
“Sandwiches. Orla. More sandwiches.Mishka.”
Orla.