Toot toot!
Somehow, Owen doesn’t laugh at me. In fact, as he takes in all my tattered edges, his expression is so solemn, he’s damn near unrecognizable.
“Like it or not, Ems… you aren’t fine,” he says gently. “And how could you be? This is your family.”
“No,” I repeat, stubborn as ever.
“You might be able to convince everyone else in that bar that this doesn’t affect you. Hell, you might even convince yourself, if you try hard enough.” His eyes narrow on mine. “But you can’t pretend with me. I know you too well.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Owen,” I say thickly, wondering why the air suddenly feels so heavy. “Those people aren’t my family. They never have been.They never wanted to be.”
Owen sighs. “Ems…”
“Why should the death of some monarch matter more to me than it does anyone else in that bar? Why should I grieve people who never gave a shit about me?” My voice quivers pathetically but I push onward, determined to get the words out. To expunge them from my body like deadly poison. “Why would I mourn people who threw me and my mom aside like trash?”
“Ems…”
There’s a heartbreaking crack right down the center of his voice. He takes a step toward me, closing a shade of the space separating us. His hand lifts from his side carefully — so achingly carefully — and with a tenderness that makes my breath catch, he cups my face. His callused thumb caresses my cheekbone and I suck in a sharp breath at the foreign sensation that small, simple touch sends spiraling through me.
His eyes are bright with unchecked emotion, even in the dark. “Don’t talk like that. You hear me? You are not trash. You are… something to be treasured. If you could see what I see… if you… you…God, Emilia, I…”
My heart starts to pound. There’s something new in his voice. Something I’ve never heard before, in all the years I’ve known him. A mix of determination and desperation and…
Something I’m too afraid to name.
Frozen in place, all I can do is watch as he shifts toward me, ever so handsome in the pale moonlight. A blond lock of hair falls across his forehead as he leans in. I don’t have time to wonder whether the world has turned upside down, whether I’m hallucinating, whether my best friend is about to bring his lips to mine and change everything between us… because before he can close those final few inches…
Screeeeeech!
The jarring squeal of rubber on asphalt fractures the night sky, bringing reality crashing down around us. We spring apart, both our heads whipping toward the sound, and watch as two black SUVs careen up onto the sidewalk in front of Hennessy’s.
Instinctively, Owen shoves me behind him, acting as my very own human shield as the mammoth vehicles slam to a halt at the mouth of the alley. Their headlights blind us in a halo so bright, I lift my arm to shield my eyes from the glare. I hear the creak of car doors opening, the swift crunch of boots against cobblestone, but my stinging retinas can make out only silhouettes of the men closing in on us, blocking any chance of escape.
What.
The.
Fuck.
Owen tries to shove me deeper into the alley, but there’s nowhere to go. My back hits a brick wall, far too tall to scale.
Whoever these guys are, they are not messing around. They move with methodical precision — a highly-trained unit, not uttering a single word as they flank us on all sides. There are four of them, dressed in nondescript black suits. Their cold, assessing eyes scan us up and down, even as their peripherals monitor the perimeter for unseen threats. I lose my breath when I see the handguns strapped to the holsters at their sides.
For a split second, I think they’re actually going to kill us in cold blood, our bodies left to rot in this forgotten alleyway like garbage, but they make no moves to take out their weapons. Still, I’d be lying if I said my heart wasn’t hammering double-speed inside my chest. Outwardly, Owen’s shoulders appear steady, but I can feel the rapid intake of his breath through the thin fabric of his shirt.
He’s scared, too.
I peer around his shoulder, trying to get a better look at the men. They don’t offer any identification or explanation for their sudden appearance. As much as I’d like to believe otherwise, I know in the marrow of my bones that they aren’t here for Owen.
They’re here for me.
My frantic thoughts trip over each other as they fight for position at the forefront of my mind.
Who sent them?
And for what possible purpose?
“Emilia Lancaster,” the nearest suit says in a dead voice.