Vengeful (Villains #2)(103)
Maybe Marcella was right. Maybe EOs shouldn’t be the ones hiding.
“Not to worry,” said June, cheerfully, shifting back into the brunette. “Honest mistake.”
They scrambled to open the door, and she stepped into the penthouse, marveling a little at the strange comfort of returning.
We really need a dog, she thought. Something to greet you when you get home.
She reached the open living room, where Jonathan sat slumped on a leather sofa, palms pressed against his eyes.
“Johnny boy, why so glum?” Her steps slowed at the sight of a large red-brown stain on the floor. “Well, that’s new.”
“Yeah,” said Jonathan, looking up, “she’s been busy.”
“I can see that. And where is our fearless leader tonight?” Jonathan didn’t answer, didn’t need to. Marcella’s voice streamed from her office.
“Why would I want flowers?”
“They’re lilies,” said a man’s voice. “I thought they’d make an elegant centerpiece.”
“I’m the elegant centerpiece.”
“Without something to soften the space, I’m afraid it will look awfully austere.”
“This is the beginning of a new age,” snapped Marcella, “not a fucking sweet sixteen. Get rid of them.”
The man hesitated. “. . . If you’re sure . . .”
June heard the telltale click of heels on marble. “Well, perhaps you do know best . . .” There was a shuffle, a gasp, and June stepped through the door just in time to see the man crumble in Marcella’s grip.
“Oh, I’ve missed this,” said June pleasantly as what was left of the man fell to the floor. She considered the ruined heap, adorned only by a few tattered bits of silk and a silver cufflink. Marcella was burning hotter, faster, and—as far as June could tell—she still had yet to find her limit.
Marcella leaned back against her desk and took up a cloth, wiping her hands. “I’ve always hated having to repeat myself.” She glanced up. “Shouldn’t you be watching over our new arrival?”
“I’ve had enough babysitting for one day,” said June. “I delivered your message.”
“And?”
“He’s a tough one to predict, but I think he’ll come.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Marcella. “I am glad you made it back in time.”
“For what?” asked June.
Marcella handed her a card.
June took it up, turned it over, eyes flitting over the paper. She shook her head, baffled and amused. “Jesus, Marcella, anyone ever told you that you’re batshit crazy?”
Marcella pursed her lips. “Several times,” she said. “It’s an insult men love to aim at ambitious women. But aren’t you forgetting, June—this was your idea.”
“It was a joke and you know it.” June flicked the card away. “How many people did you send that to?”
Marcella ticked them off on her fingers. “The mayor, the chief of police, the district attorney, the director of EON.” She waved her hand. “And a few hundred of the most powerful—well, formerly most powerful—people in this fine city.”
June shook her head in disbelief. “Drawing this kind of attention is a very bad idea. You’re putting a target on our backs.”
“There’s already one there. Haven’t you noticed? They’re going to come for us, one way or another, June, and if we stay hidden, no one will ever know we were there. So let them see us. Let them see what we can do.” Marcella smiled, that radiant, seductive smile. “Admit it, June. There’s a part of you that wants to stand in that light. No more running. No more hiding.”
Marcella didn’t understand that June would always be hiding. But the woman was right about one thing.
People had tried to bend June. Tried to break her. Tried to make her feel small.
Perhaps it was time for them to understand how small they were. June could never be herself, not the self she was before, but she could be someone. She could be seen.
And when EON came calling, well, they wouldn’t catch her.
Which left only one question, really.
Who was she going to wear?
VI
THE LAST MORNING
MERIT
SYDNEY crashed to her hands and knees on the ice.
She tried to get away, but Eli grabbed the collar of her coat, dragging her backward.
“Come now, Sydney,” he said. “Let’s finish what we started.”
She sat up, gasping for air.
Syd didn’t remember falling asleep. She’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, restless. It wasn’t the Kingsley—she’d spent five years getting used to strange new places. It was Victor—or rather, his absence.
The apartment felt wrong, too empty without him.
He had a way of taking up space, and even when he started to move like a ghost, coming and going, he never stayed gone. There was always that thread connecting him to Sydney, and whenever he was out late, she’d lie in bed and feel it spool away beneath her hand, and then draw tight when he returned.
But Victor hadn’t come back last night.
Dumont had been a trap, and Victor had almost been caught in it. He’d gotten away, and wouldn’t come back until it was safe. He’d gotten away—and Sydney knew he’d had help. She checked her phone again, saw the notes from last night.