Chapter 18 - Blood on the SilkA predator does not wait patiently for its prey to surrender.
Cassian Thorne did not believe my phone call. He knew that the Iron Queen of New York did not bow easily. He wanted to ensure that when we met at the gala, I was sufficiently terrified to sign over the deeds without a fight.
It was Friday afternoon, just hours before the summit. I was at the original Moretti Bespoke tailor shop in Brooklyn, picking up the custom tuxedo Noah was going to wear that evening. The shop was quiet, the smell of rich wool and leather hanging comfortably in the air.
I was standing at the front counter when the heavy oak door shattered inward.
Three men in tactical gear poured into the shop. They weren't federal agents. They were mercenaries.
“Lyra Moretti!” the lead man shouted, raising a suppressed weapon. “You’re coming with us!”
My heart stopped. But before the scream could even leave my throat, the shadows of the shop came alive.
Noah had insisted on traveling with me. He had been in the back room, speaking with the master tailor.
He moved with a speed that defied human logic.
Noah didn't draw a gun. He didn't need to. He launched himself through the doorway, driving his massive shoulder directly into the chest of the lead mercenary. The impact sounded like a car crash. The man flew backward, crashing through a glass display case of silk ties.
The second mercenary turned his weapon toward Noah.
I didn't freeze. I grabbed a pair of heavy, iron fabric shears from the cutting table and hurled them at the man’s face. The shears struck his cheekbone, causing him to stumble and misfire his weapon into the ceiling.
That microsecond of distraction was all Noah needed.
He grabbed the man by the throat, hoisting him entirely off the floor with one hand, and slammed him brutally into the brick wall. The man dropped like a stone.
The third mercenary took one look at the towering, blood-spattered titan standing between him and me, and realized he was not fighting a businessman. He was fighting the apex predator of the New York underworld.
The man dropped his weapon and ran out the shattered front door.
Noah stood in the center of the ruined shop, his chest heaving, his fists clenched. He turned to me, his dark eyes wide with a frantic, primal terror.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, rushing over and checking my arms, my face, my neck.
“I’m fine,” I gasped, clutching his lapels, pulling him down to press my forehead against his. “I’m fine, Noah. You stopped them.”
He pulled me into a crushing embrace, burying his face in my neck. “He sent them to take you. To use you as leverage tonight.”
“He missed,” I whispered fiercely, pulling back to look him dead in the eye. “He missed, Noah. And now, he has removed the last shred of mercy I was willing to offer him.”
May you like
I looked at the shattered glass and the blood on the silk ties.
“Go home and change into your suit,” I commanded, the adrenaline shifting into pure, unadulterated matriarchal fury. “Cassian Thorne wants a war. Tonight, we give him an execution.”
Related Stories
