Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(63)

But she would do this, for her friend’s sake.

She knew all too well what it was like to lose someone you loved—they all did in their own way—and if she could do something to fix that, she would.

Even if it meant making a deal with the last person anyone ever wanted to make a deal with.

Luna had barely put the Porsche in park before an attendant was hurrying around to her side, ready to perform any task if she asked. Since she had called and requested a meeting with him not even an hour ago, she didn’t doubt that he had made these preparations on her behalf.

He still didn’t understand that she wasn’t moved by any of it.

Especially now that she had her own.

But then again, having grown up with very little, she didn’t place much value in material things.

Passing her keys to the boy that looked barely older than nineteen, she started for the intricate doors just ahead, made by a man gifted in the art of welding metals.

If she remembered correctly, it had taken three months for the concept, and another six to complete them. Now, they were the perfect addition to the architecture of the building.

But he had always had an eye for those kinds of details.

Without prompting, the doors were opened, warm light brightening an otherwise darkened interior. The walls and ceiling were both painted a cream color, but the tables, and even the tall bar stools were black. It made the place look cleaner, more appealing.

Considering it was seven o’clock on a Friday night, Luna was surprised that the place was empty—and that wasn’t to say there were a couple of people dining. No one was there at all.

Taking a look around, she was tempted to walk right back out the doors, wanting to avoid any interaction with him—especially since when she had seen him last, she had made it quite clear that she would rather die than come to him for aid.

She only hoped he wouldn’t throw those words back at her.

As she was about to call out, one of the double doors leading into the kitchen swung open, a woman in a tight black dress and six-inch heels appeared, looking directly at her. Long auburn hair fell pin-straight down her back, complementing pale skin without a freckle in sight.

Aidra, her name was.

The woman didn’t age. For all Luna knew, she could have still been in her late thirties, but it couldn’t be seen in her youthful features. In what little time they had spent together, she had never bothered to ask the woman’s age—not that she thought she would have gotten an answer.

Not only did Aidra not share the secrets of her employer, but she never revealed a single thing about herself either.

Sometimes Luna wondered whether the conversations she remembered had truly happened, or if they were just a figment of her imagination.

“Kit is waiting for you,” Aidra said, her expression unreadable—or perhaps Luna wanted it to be unreadable because she wanted the other woman to actually show emotion.

Taking a calming breath, Luna started in that direction, counting each step she made just to have something to focus on other than the quickened tempo of her heart.

How long would it take before the mere mention of his name no longer had an effect on her?

How long would it be until she could move on from him?

The kitchen smelled of cleaning supplies and the lightest trace of lemons, but that all faded to the back of her mind as she got her first glimpse of him across the room at a special chef’s table set up specifically for certain clientele. It provided an unobstructed view of the food being prepared, and because of its position and the extra vents in place, it stayed moderately cool.

Unlike his brother, Kit Runehart didn’t often wear color, choosing black silk shirts to go along with his black suits. It was understated in intention, but it spoke volumes about him.

Whether he knew it or not.

The closer she came, the more she felt that familiar tether that had always drawn her to him—that invisible force that refused to let her go. There were times, very much like this one, where she felt like she was helpless but to obey whatever he asked of her, even if it went against everything she wanted.

And for the life of her, she didn’t understand it.

He was so different from his brother. He didn’t dabble in affairs. He didn’t use people like pawns to further his own empire. But then again, the very things that made them different were the same traits that made them the same.

Kit, too, was skilled in the art of fixing otherwise bad situations, but his specialty was supply and demand.

If there was something one needed, he could procure it.

Cars.

Mansions.

Kidneys.

Murderers.

No matter its hiding place, he could find it.

He was the facilitator, and he was damn good at what he did.

Upon first glance, Kit looked rather unassuming. He had rather kind features, though with a rugged jaw, and piercing eyes that could see into the depths of a person. His eyebrows, which arced down and made him look perpetually curious, also softened what would otherwise be hardened features.

But looks were deceiving.

As much as he could look innocent, there was something far darker that simmered beneath the surface.

She knew what those hands of his were capable of, the pain they inflicted when he was inspired.

He was six and a half feet of muscle and lethal power.

An eclipse, she always thought.

Though he was aware that she had joined him—Aidra having disappeared back out the door—he didn’t look to her just yet. He was too busy reading a message on his phone, his thumb flying over the screen as he typed a message in return.