Kian’s Yacht
It’s not the first time I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun. But the fact that Kian is the one holding it up to my face feels wrong somehow. I freeze before my foot can take the next step.
Kian freezes, too. Then his expression flutters with relief. He straightens up and drops the gun. “Goddammit, Renata,” he huffs. “I’m gonna need to get you a bell or something.”
I roll my eyes. “I thought you were more into collars.”
That earns me a reluctant smile. “What are you doing here?” he grumbles.
“What are you doing here?”
He glances at the weapon in his hand. “Looks to me like I’m holding a gun.”
“Anticipating company?”
Kian’s expression betrays nothing, but I can tell he’s on edge. Or maybe he’s just not telling me something. “The Lombardis and the Greeks will know by now that I have both of you,” he answers me. “That makes this place a target. I don’t intend to be a sitting duck.”
He’s looking at me intently, trying to gauge my reaction. I just shrug. “Fair enough.”
“Right. Fair enough. Were you looking for me?” he asks.
“I noticed you walking up to the dock from the pool. So I followed.”
“Did you want to handcuff me to anything else?” he jokes. But the anxiety never fully leaves his eyes.
I glance around the private cabin we’re standing in, surprise by how bare bones it is. I’d expected a lounge area, a fully stocked bar, maybe even a bed. There is a bar in the corner, but it’s clearly empty and untouched.
“Only if you give me a reason to,” I say distractedly. “Why exactly is it so depressing down here?”
“Because I use the yacht to store weapons and get from Point A to Point B,” he tells me. “I don’t need it to look pretty. I need it to do its job.”
The explanation makes sense, but I’m still getting the feeling that he’s trying to get me off of here as fast as possible. “Wait,” I say, sniffing the air. “What is that smell?”
“Renata,” he says impatiently, “why did you follow me here?”
I frown. “I wanted to talk to you about my brother.”
He can’t quite hide the automatic eyeroll that follows any mention of Drago. “What about him?”
“His arm is broken.”
“He’s lucky I didn’t break more.”
“Kian!”
“If you expect me to suddenly care about that fucker just because you do—”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” I interrupt angrily. “I’m just asking for a little humanity.”
He scoffs at that as he ushers me back to the staircase that leads to the upper deck.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“We can discuss this back in the house.”
“What’s wrong with here?”
“It’s stuffy down here,” Kian replies, but his eyes dart to the door opposite us.