Page 61 of Lucky
Her words hang in the air, and I can hear the edge of frustration in her tone. She is trying to keep it together, but she’s getting antsy now, and the cracks are starting to show.
“It’s not safe for you to go back there,” I tell her, my voice firm.
She stops mid-stride, turning to face me. Her eyes narrow, the stubborn tilt of her chin telling me this isn’t going to be aneasy conversation. “It’s my home,” she says, as if I didn’t already know. The way she says it—like home is some untouchable sanctuary—makes me want to sigh. I haven’t forgotten that she lived in a palace, the kind of place where people don’t just visit; they gawk. But for now, it’s a fortress without an army, and I can’t let her go anywhere she’s not protected.
“I need you to change your mindset a little, Jacklyn. For the moment, this is the safest place for you to be,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice calm.
I don’t tell her that Daniel Russo raided the compound, effectively destroying every inch of her home. The house will need major repair before she can even think of stepping back inside it, but it also needs tighter security. I save her the added heartbreak that I know will only add to her woes; there’s a time and place for everything, and right now, all I want is for her to concentrate on what’s important. Helping us find Daniel Russo so we can bury him in a pile of rubble.
“Why would I…” She starts, but her voice trails off as we enter the War Room. She freezes, her eyes widening as she takes in the sight before her.
Every wall is a display of deadly craftsmanship—guns, knives, crossbows, and weapons I can’t even name, all arranged with precision. It is an armory that could supply a substantial army and then some.
“Wow,” she breathes, stepping further into the room. Her fingers twitch, as if she wants to touch the cold steel but thinks better of it. “This is… something else.”
I smirk, leaning casually against the edge of the large conference table in the center of the room. “Scar likes to be prepared.”
“No kidding,” she mutters, her gaze darting from a particularly wicked-looking blade to a high-powered riflemounted like a trophy. “This looks like the set of an action movie. Do you actually use all of this?”
“Not all at once,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
She shoots me a look, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. “Good to know.”
For a moment, she seems to forget her frustration, her curiosity taking over. She moves through the room like she is trying to piece together the kind of man Scar is, as if the weapons might tell her more about him.
But then her earlier question comes rushing back. She turns to me, arms crossed. “I still don’t see how this is going to work. You can’t expect me to just… stay here indefinitely.”
“It’s not forever,” I say, my tone softening. “It’s just until we can make sure you’re safe.”
Her gaze meets mine, and for a second, the tension between us shifts. There is something vulnerable in her eyes, something that makes me want to close the distance between us. But I hold back, shoving my hands into my pockets instead, because I know there’s a very real danger that I will reach out and touch her.
Before I can say anything else, the door to the War Room swings open. Scar and Caleph enter, followed by Dante and Rafi. They look like they’ve been up for hours, practising their targets in the woods behind the house. They’re chatting amiably and set down all manner of weapons on the bench in the middle of the room to be checked and polished, before they look up and notice us standing in the corner of the room.
“You missed the hunting session,” Scar says, though it sounds more like an admonishment than anything else.
“Late night,” I tell them. “Sorry I missed it.”
“You sleep alright?” Scar asks Jacklyn. “Everything to your liking?”
“Everything’s fine. Your wife is amazing.”
Scar gives her a small smile as a wistful look spreads over his face. Each man in this room, save Rafi because he doesn’t have anyone in his life yet, has stars in his eyes when the conversation turns to his wife. I wonder what it must be like for them, this complete and utter obsession that consumes them when it comes to their significant others.
“Do you mind if I join you?” Jacklyn asks. “Next time you go hunting?”
The men all turn to each other, shooting curious glances between them. It’s an unusual request from a stranger outside their circle.
“Not at all.” It’s Caleph who speaks up. “We’d love to see what the Vicci leader is made of.”
31
JACKLYN
Respect. There’s nothing quite like it. Especially when it’s earned.
My childhood wasn’t a traditional one. I wasn’t sent to public school to mingle with kids my age or to learn social etiquette in a classroom. Instead, I was homeschooled—my days an unrelenting schedule of tutors, training, and expectations. When my father wasn’t drilling me on the importance of strategy and discipline, my hours were filled with what he liked to call “practical education.” Equestrian training, judo, shooting, archery—the kind of extracurricular activities no school would dare put on a brochure.
For my father, preparation wasn’t optional. It was survival. And in his world—the world of power, blood, and shadows—being prepared wasn’t just smart; it was a necessity.