“Kyle said he was designing one, because it needed to be aesthetically attractive, and was going to have Freddy and Troy build it.”
“Then I can get my hands on a death ray . . . that’s good to know.”
“And that’s what has me worried.”
“Are you going into the City alone?”
“Bringing Shen.”
“You’ll be careful?”
“I will. You promise not to throw another locker at Blayne?”
“No.”
“Livy, remember? Novikov and Lock saved your life. And Novikov loves Blayne.”
“Why?”
“Livy.”
“I’ll be nice.” She tried to smile to show her sincerity, but Vic leaned away from her.
“Don’t . . .” He shook his head. “Don’t force it.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah. It’s that bad.”
Gwen sat down on the couch next to Lock. He’d been quiet since they’d pulled into the driveway, and although he wasn’t a chatty bear in general, it wasn’t like him to say nothing.
“What’s going on with you?” she asked, not bothering to lower her voice since she couldn’t be heard over Blayne’s excited squealing as she ran out the French doors that led to an enormous backyard.
“Nothing.”
“Hate when you lie to me.”
Lock shrugged those massive shoulders she sometimes hung off just because she could. “He bought her a house.” He glanced over at Novikov, who didn’t seem impressed by his own purchase. Then again, Novikov rarely seemed impressed by anything. “Actually, he bought her a mansion. I made you a table.”
“The mahogany one you had in the back room of your workshop?”
“You saw it?”
“Saw it. Loved it. Already planned to move it into the new apartment.”
“It’s not a mansion.”
“And you’re not Novikov and I’m not Blayne.”
Blayne squealed again and charged back into the living room, slamming the doors behind her. Something rammed into the doors from the other side, nearly sending Blayne crashing to the floor.
“Squirrel!” she squealed.
“What?” Novikov asked.
“Squirrel!”
“What did you do to them now?”
“I didn’t do anything. They just attacked me!”
Novikov rolled his eyes and began looking around his house again. “Man, these badgers are sloppy. We’ll have to bring that cleaning service I like in to go over the place again before we can stay here.” Another bang at the door and Novikov glared at Blayne. “Would you stop fooling around with those squirrels?”
“Me? I didn’t do anything!”
“You sure? You didn’t try to pet one?”
Her back still against the door, Blayne admitted, “I just wanted to see if they were friendly.”
“Well . . . now you know they’re not.”
Gwen looked at Lock. “And I am seriously okay with not being them.”
Livy walked into the room, and Gwen was happy to see her friend-in-derby, whom she privately called “my personal battering ram” looking healthy and surprisingly happy, considering.
“Hey,” Novikov greeted her, a real smile on his face.
“Hey.” She nodded at Novikov and then Lock. Livy’s way of saying “thanks for saving my life” without actually saying it.
“Livy! Hey!” Blayne cheered from her spot at the door, her body the only thing keeping the squirrels outside.
Livy studied Blayne. “What are you doing?”
“Slight problem with a squirrel. Or squirrels. Probably squirrel s at this point.”
“Oh yeah.” Livy walked up to Blayne, grabbed her wrist, and yanked her from the door. She snatched the doors open and hissed. Panicked squeals and chattering followed, and Livy closed the doors.
“Sorry about that. My uncles got drunk the other night and kind of had a feeding frenzy out there with the squirrels and raccoons.”
Horrified, Blayne demanded, “Why would they do such a thing?”
“I wouldn’t let them bring snakes here and they were hungry for something that would fight back.”
“Thanks,” Novikov said. “For not bringing snakes in here.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Really?” Blayne asked her mate.
“What do you want me to say? ‘Go on, bring your snakes in’? That sounds poorly planned, in my opinion.”
Blayne dismissed her mate with a wave of both hands and suddenly walked toward Livy, arms opened wide. The badger immediately held her hand up, stopping Blayne in her tracks.
“No,” Livy told Blayne.
“But—”
“No. No hugging. You can say ‘good to see you’ from there.”
“Oh, come—”
“No.” When Blayne stamped her foot in frustration, Livy offered, “I can open those doors and let those squirrels right back in here.”
“Fine. But you’re being kind of a bitch.”
“To be honest, I’ve never been kind of a bitch. I just am.”
Blayne glared at Gwen. “And you can stop laughing.”
“I could . . . but I won’t.”
Dee-Ann sat at the kitchen island in the apartment she shared with her mate. And it was her mate who put a cup of coffee in front of her and said, “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t know why.”
Ric sat down next to her. “Because you’re kind of . . . depressed. I’ve never seen you depressed before. It’s completely freaking me out.”
“I failed. Hate failure. Just another word for weakness.”
“How did you fail? If anything, it sounds like our bosses failed. Miserably.”
“You didn’t see how your friends all looked at me. Like I’d shot Kowalski myself. I’ve never not been trusted before.”
“Dee-Ann.”
She revised her statement. “I’ve never not been trusted before by those I wasn’t actively trying to kill. Happy now?”
“Just trying to keep you honest.”
The doorbell rang, and Ric kissed Dee-Ann on the forehead before walking out of the kitchen to answer.
“Dee-Ann?” Ric eventually called out.
“What?”
Ric came back into the kitchen. “You have a visitor.”
She looked up to see Barinov taking up the entire doorway.
“Hey, Dee-Ann.”
“It wasn’t me!” she suddenly exploded, surprising everyone in the room, even herself. “I’d never put someone in that kind of danger. All right, maybe Blayne, but Kowalski ain’t ever annoyed me as much as that mutt—”
“Dee-Ann. Dee-Ann!” Barinov chuckled. “I’m sorry we bailed the way we did. At the time I was not comfortable trusting . . . anyone.”
“You trusted Novikov,” she couldn’t help reminding him. “And Blayne.”
“It’s a mutt thing.”
Ric snorted, and when Dee glared at her mate, he quickly walked toward the refrigerator. “Would you like something to drink, Vic? Orange juice? Honey soda?”
“No thanks. I’m actually here to let Dee know . . . wait. There’s honey soda?”
“Y’all!”
“Sorry. Sorry. We found Whitlan.”
Ric closed the refrigerator and faced Barinov. “You found him?”
“He’s being protected. Heavily.”
Dee-Ann shrugged. “Don’t care if he’s being protected by Satan himself, where is he?”
“Russia.”
“Oh, you can’t go there,” Ric immediately replied.
“Van Holtz—”
“Don’t even, Dee-Ann. You can’t go to Russia.”
“Ain’t nobody gonna stop me.”
“Since the prime minister still so lovingly refers to you as The Murdering Twat, I think we need to come up with another option. And who, exactly, is protecting Whitlan in Russia?” he asked Barinov.