The Mountain Lodge, Picacho Del Diablo, Mexico
Everything has gone wrong at once.
The seconds after Artem leaves stretch out into endless eternity. Minutes slither past, mocking me.
Don’t just sit there.
Don’t just panic.
But I don’t know what else to do. I can barely form a coherent thought.
The cabin is quiet and moonlight splices in through the tiny little cracks in the blinds that Artem pulled down before he left.
How long since he walked out that door? I know it’s been a minute, maybe two, but it feels like so much longer.
My heart drums hard against my chest. I know it’s warning me, but I don’t know what it’s warning me against.
I feel my baby turn inside me and I cry out in shock, in pain. I place a hand over my stomach and try to infuse as much calm as I can into my voice.
“Hush, little bird,” I whisper. “We’re going to be all right. Papa’s gonna come right back.”
Why does that sound like a lie?
Images of dead men and circling birds of prey fill my head. I see blood and violence and my hand clinging onto a gun I don’t want to hold.
The panic took root in my soul the day I saw the dead man down the ravine. It’s been dormant until now, just biding its time and waiting for an excuse to come out and torture me.
But it’s more than just my own head creating monsters.
It’s also the look on Artem’s face before he had left.
That was the look of a man with blood on his mind.
The look of a man who had faced violence so many times that he had become immune to its hold.
In other words… the look of a man who lied to me when he said he was ready to give it all up.
I can’t bring myself to relax or lie still. So I abandon my search for calm and head out of the room.
“Cillian.”
“Heyo, there she is,” he mumbles cheerily.
But I can tell that that his unruffled façade is forced.
He gives me a tight, unconvincing smile. “It’s late. You should be in bed.”
“You should be with Artem.”
I hadn’t meant it to sound so accusing, but Cillian flinches back slightly. It’s the first chink in his armor. I wonder how long it’ll take him to be honest with me.
He shrugs nonchalantly. “That old grouch? I have more fun with you.”
I narrow my eyes at him and join him on the couch. One glance tells me that there’s a gun placed surreptitiously under the cushion beside him. I pretend that I don’t notice.
“You mean, Artem forced you to stay back to protect me,” I say.
Cillian’s smile is my answer.