"Stand up," he says, his voice wrecked.
I do, and he cups my face with his good hand, kissing me hard. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting himself, and I melt against him.
"Yes, you're my good girl," he says. "I don't know how much that helped my arm," he continues, and we both laugh, "but it definitely helped my mood."
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him again. "Well, let's finish and get out. Breakfast outside, remember?"
"Of course, Leni."
We finish showering and get out.
I get dressed first, jeans and a sweater, and then I help Adrian. We change his bandages, and then I help him dress: a black shirt, matching jeans, and his boots.
I tie the sling around his neck, and as I velcro it together, there's a sharp, heavy knock on the bedroom door.
We both freeze and look up at each other.
"Adrian," Victor's voice carries through the wood. "Adrian."
"Yeah," he says as I adjust his sling, making sure it's on okay and his arm is secure.
"Come downstairs. Hurry, brother. We need to talk," Victor says.
And just like that, the peaceful, intimate bubble we've been living in shatters.
Adrian's jaw tightens, his eyes darkening instantly. The lover vanishes, replaced by the lethal enforcer I know too well.
He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering for a moment.
Then he moves to the nightstand, grabbing his gun and tucking it into his waistband.
"Let's go," he says.
I follow him to the door, my heart pounding, and he opens it.
Victor stands in the hallway, his expression grim. Something's not right.
Adrian doesn't hesitate. He steps out, his body already shifting into combat mode, despite his loss of use of one arm, and I stay close behind.
This is it, I feel.
The war is starting.
30
ADRIAN
Victor doesn't say anything. He just turns and starts walking.
Elena and I follow him down the stairs, our footsteps the only thing making a sound. The house feels too quiet, the kind of silence that doesn't sit right with you, makes you think something unimaginable is coming.
We walk through the hallway, past the sitting room where I used to hide when I was a kid, past the oil paintings of our great-grandparents staring down at us with stern faces.
Victor leads us past all of it and into our father's office.
The mahogany door is already open. Lucian stands behind the massive desk, shoulders hunched, staring down at a pile of papers spread across the dark wood surface. He doesn't look up when we enter.
Victor shuts the door behind us, moves to the bar cart in the corner, and pours himself a drink. Whiskey. Neat. He doesn't bother asking if anyone else wants one.