“We’re in the home stretch here,” I remind her.
She nods. “See you on the other side.”
Then she turns and walks out the door, leaving it open for Jax and Gaiman to walk through.
“Everything done?” I ask.
“She’s in your room,” Gaiman confirms. “She… doesn’t seem to be in a good place.”
“Can’t blame her,” Jax mutters.
“Actually, I can,” I growl. “She’s responsible for this mess. If she hadn’t fought me so goddamn hard, Pasha would be here with us. Belov wouldn’t have found anything when he invaded Anya’s compound.”
Gaiman and Jax exchange a glance, but neither one says anything. Both of them are smart enough to know that this is not the time to defend Willow.
I’m sick of talking about it, anyway. The blame game solves nothing. It’s time for action. For violence.
It’s time for what I do best.
“What have you got for me?” I ask Gaiman.
He straightens up and clears his throat. “I had a team follow Anya’s tracks out of the city, but we lost her about two miles out. She’s probably in one of her safehouses somewhere, hiding.”
“Find her,” I say. “It’s about time we spoke face to face.”
Gaiman looks wary. “It might take a while. She’s no slouch. She knows how to hide, how to cover her—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck,” I interrupt harshly. “When I ask you to do something, I don’t want to hear excuses. I want results. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Gaiman says. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He’s about to leave the office when the door cracks open. “Boss?”
“Connor,” I say to the young guard. “What is it?”
“It’s… um… Mrs. Solovev, sir,” he says uncertainly. “She’s banging on the door. Says she needs to speak to you.”
I snort. “Ignore it. And next time, don’t waste my time with that shit.”
His eyes dart around the room. There’s clearly something else he hasn’t told me yet, but he’s trying to determine just how important that information is.
Jax moves forward. “You heard him. Get out.”
“Wait,” I say. My instincts are prickling. “What else did she say?”
He looks relieved that I’ve asked. “She says she knows where to find her mother.”
23
WILLOW
Pasha clings to my breast but he refuses to suckle. “He’s not latching on,” I whisper. “Come on, little man. Just drink. Please?”
“It won’t matter even if he latches on,” Anya points out. “You don’t have milk.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t breastfeed me?”
She looks almost embarrassed that I would even think to ask the question. “Of course not.”
“How old was I when you gave me up?”
“A month,” she says.
“You could have breastfed me until then.”
“But I didn’t want to,” she says curtly. “That’s all there is to it.”
I focus on my son in order to keep my resentment from spilling out. She adjusts in the chair, and I can feel her eyes on me.
“You’re expecting more from me than I can give, Viktoria,” she remarks. “I was not meant to be a mother. That was one of the reasons I gave you up.”
I laugh bitterly. “That may be the first honest thing you’ve said to me in a while.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
I shrug. “Just telling you how I feel.”
She sighs and crosses her legs. “That’s the one thing I regret about letting you go: so many fucking feelings. They formed you in their image, and that image was weak.”
“If you’re talking about my parents, they’re the best people I know.”
“They are weak. They think feelings matter. They think that’s how you decide things—how you feel about them. Pah! Pathetic.”
“Some would call that love.”
She snorts, and her eyes dance with irritation. “They didn’t approve of the man you were with. And what did they do? They said their piece and that was it. They couldn’t stop you from making a choice they knew was wrong.”
“What would you have done?” I ask impatiently.
“I would have gotten rid of him.”
I stare at her in disbelief. “Are you serious?”