“I like you all ways. Does that hurt to hear too?”
“Yes.”
Nix smoothed the blankets around Ivan once again, letting their conversation fall into silence.
He had thought Ivan was asleep already when the human spoke again. “It’s better like this though. Love gets people killed. Or drives them to do the killing. It’s a rotten business either way.”
Good heavens. Nix shushed him, running a hand through his hair until Ivan’s brow smoothed and he began sleeping for real.
Tucking his human into bed, comforting him after horrifying, gut-wrenching truths. It was all domestic as hell, wasn’t it? Nix was going to be an amazing mate, now that he’d decided to be. And he’d never met anyone more in need of a mate than his Vanya.
Now he just had to convince Ivan of that fact.
14
Ivan
The familiar restaurant was dimly lit, the dark-red booths each with their own small candle. It had been Sergei’s idea to hold the gathering here, but Ivan supposed it was appropriate. It had been their father’s favorite place to do business, besides the warehouse. The owner was always willing to look the other way for regular patronage and a little extra cash.
Now it was the spot for his father’s wake. A sea of men in black, with enough food to feed ten armies, some of it from the restaurant itself, the rest courtesy of the wives.
Ivan held his chilled glass of vodka, his thumb swiping back and forth across the condensation. For now, he was only holding it. Every man there was eager to refill it as soon as he took a sip, and he needed a clear head. Or as clear as he could make it. He barely remembered the service as it was.
His father wasn’t supposed to die. Not so soon. Not like this.
An aneurysm. A fucking ruptured aneurysm—that was what the autopsy had said.
All Ivan knew was that one moment, his father had been talking about business, and then he’d winced, said, “My head’s fucking killing me,” and slumped in his seat. Sergei had called 911—probably the first time in his life he could say he’d done so—and Ivan had tried to resuscitate his father.
He’d failed at that, clearly.
“You’re not drinking enough,” Alexei chastised, sliding into the booth next to him. His dirty-blond hair was swept back into its usual bun, his broad form stuffed into a black suit. He looked…tired, his hazel eyes red-rimmed and heavy-lidded.
“Someone has to be sober,” Ivan told him, another round of raucous laughter from the men punctuating his point.
“And it should be our new revered leader, hm?”
“And is there a problem with that?” It may not have been meant to happen for another decade, but Ivan had been raised to lead, Alexei meant to stay one step to the side.
One step behind.
And fuck, did Alexei seem to hate that. Ivan had never been able to figure out why, exactly—it wasn’t like Alexei wanted to lead himself. He could hardly care less about the entire business.
“Our father is dead,” Alexei said bluntly instead of answering Ivan’s question.
Ivan contained his eye roll, if only barely. “Yes. I’m incredibly aware.”
Alexei lowered his voice and lifted his drink, his lips now hidden behind his glass. “If there was ever a time to leave all this behind, it would be now.”
It was a fucking dangerous thing to be said out loud, even as quietly as that.
Ivan gestured to the gruff men surrounding them, the scars and tattoos, guns hiding within suit jackets. No loose women, not with the wives around, but that would happen later, as the night went on and the wives went home. More than half the rabble were watching Ivan andAlexei from the corners of their eyes, even those laughing among themselves. “Does this look like something that gets left behind?”
Alexei leaned closer. “If we did it now—”
“We’d be as dead as our dear father. You know this. Youknowthis,” Ivan repeated, his frustration hard to contain. “Why do you make me say it?”
Alexei’s jaw tightened, the only sign of how pissed off he might be at Ivan’s refusal. “We might be dead either way.”
