Page 43 of One Last Stand

Tomas hit his feet. His eyes sharp.

London stepped between them. “Sit down, Tomas.” She turned to Shep. “Tomas was my mark because I knew how much he hated the Petrovs. He’s Abkhazian by birth, and the Russians . . . they attacked his village.”

“My mother was shot in front of me, and my sister . . . they took her. I heard her screaming as they assaulted me. I woke up in a Petrov prison—the Russianssoldme to the Bratva. So yes, you can just sod off.”

Shep raised an eyebrow. Then he looked at London. “Do whatever you want. I have a dog I need to go home and feed.”

“The dog is fine. Your neighbor Jasmine is taking care of him.” London said the name weirdly, as if . . .

His mouth tweaked up. “Jasmine, huh?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Good. She makes the best bibingka.” He met her gaze.

She shook her head, her eyes glossy.

Wow,he was a liar. But the room had gone quiet—terribly, brutally quiet. He looked at Moose, then Axel. “I’m going to need a ride home.”

Moose nodded.

Then Shep turned and headed to the locker room, his chest burning.

And all he heard was, “Let him go, Laney.”

No, he didn’t know this woman. Not at all. Still, as he walked into the warm and a-little-steamy locker room, he braced his hand on the wall of locker doors.

How . . . what . ..He didn’t know how to sort out?—

“I’m sorry, Shep.”

He looked over. London had come into the room, the door closing softly behind her. She leaned against the wall, her hands behind her.

“I’m sorry I lied to you.”

She did look sorry, her eyes soft, a swallow after her words.

He wanted to round on her, to shout, but he drew in a breath. Schooled his voice. “Why?”

“Why?” She frowned at him. “Because of the very thing?—”

“Why didn’t you trust me?” He took a step toward her. “Why didn’t you come to me? I would have kept your secret—youknowthat.”

Her voice fell, turned quiet and small. “I do.”

He stared at her, his heart in his throat, his eyes suddenly burning. “I was . . . eviscerated when you died. Absolutely lost. London, Imournedyou. I mourned you as if—” As if she were hiswife. That hit him then. Yes, his wife, a part of himself. He found other words, however. “As if I’d lost a piece of myself.” His jaw tightened, his voice roughening. A tear edged his eye, and he wiped it away with a fierce swipe. “And thewayyou died. It . . . took me apart. London. What you did to me wascruel.”

Her eyes had filled. “I know. I saw you suffering, and . . .” She closed her mouth, shook her head, her voice breaking. “I know. But . . . I just thought it might be easier because I . . . I knew I had to leave?—”

“Easier to think you were dead instead of just . . .walking away from me? Sheesh, London. How fragile do you think I am?”

“Not fragile! Kind and protective and . . . and . . . it wasn’t about you; it was me.”

He recoiled. “Oh, please. That’s just beautiful.”

“Shep—”

“Save it. Now you’re just being patronizing—” He turned away.