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Authors: Tracy Tappan
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said through set teeth, “that it was half-cocked to try and track those fuckers into their lair. When else would their scent be so fresh? You do want to know where this topside faction holes up, don’t you, Jaċken?”
“Why sure, Dev. So what was this, then?” Jaċken arched his brows in a way that brought a sting to Dev’s cheeks. “A recon mission you were on or a lesson-teaching one?”
He glanced away, cursing under his breath.
“It was a different mission for a different time, that’s what it was.” Jaċken gestured abruptly. “You were already outnumbered, for chrissake, and then you take only one man with you to go chase down two factions of Om Rău?”
Heat burned through Dev’s chest. “There wasn’t one warrior on the team who didn’t agree with what I did.”
“Who gives a shit? Leadership isn’t about providing everyone with a happy hard-on. It’s about the ability to make difficult decisions.” Jaċken thrust to his feet. “We clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Dev stood, too, fighting the urge to ball his hands into fists. “And I should probably make it clear that if I had it to do all over again, I’d make the same decision.” Because he hadn’t been fucking wrong.
Jaċken paused, then exhaled forcefully. “You’re one of the best fighters I have, Dev, quick and strong and a great strategist, but this is where you fall off the vine—you do what you want to do and damn the consequences. I have plans for you, but you need to learn to view the big picture when you’re out in the field and not just your own self-involved version of it.”
Dev’s throat filled, but this time, he kept his comment to himself.
“I won’t pull you off leadership for now. But I need you to think about what I said.” Jaċken jerked his chin toward the door. “Hit the showers.”
Dev turned on his heel and stalked out of the rec room, heading straight for the armory. He slammed his mangled M4 into the gun rack, then took off for the mansion’s front door rather than continuing one more flight up to his bedroom. He smelled like a dump—an actual pile of shit or a garbage site, it was a toss-up—but, screw it. He was going to Garwald’s Pub for a drink.
Chapter Seven
Luvera stole soundlessly along the mansion’s second floor landing, the thick burgundy Berber carpet silencing her footsteps. Murals of famous European cities decorated the doors lining the hallway on either side of her. Rome, with a beautiful depiction of the Colosseum came first, situated right across from Paris and its famous, soaring Eiffel Tower. Here, she faltered. This was Tonĩ’s former room, now occupied by her brother, Alex, the only man on this floor of single males who wasn’t a warrior. She stared at the door for several long minutes, until she started to feel stupid, then moved on. From Rome, the doors continued along with Oslo, London, Dublin—her brother, Dev’s, room—and Berlin, Jaċken’s old room, now home to Vinz. On the other side, Paris led to Copenhagen, Vienna, Amsterdam, which, with its whimsical tulips, was the oddest room to give to Nỵko Brun, the biggest, scariest-looking warrior of them all. And next door to that, her destination: Istanbul.
She knocked right on the soaring minarets of the Blue Mosque.
A moment later, the door swung open, and Shọn Brun stepped into the jamb.
To say that Shọn was the smallest of the three Half-Rău Brun brothers would be officially accurate, but far from precisely descriptive. Being a few inches shorter than his brother, Jaċken—it wasn’t even fair to compare him to gigantic Nỵko—didn’t qualify him as small . And if his muscles bulged a little less, they were still steely and whipcord taut, not an ounce of softening fat visible on his body.
He had strong, angular features, a sullen mouth, and his eyes were black and bright at the same time, like coals halfway through the process of becoming diamonds. His hair was currently a mass of tangled
“Why sure, Dev. So what was this, then?” Jaċken arched his brows in a way that brought a sting to Dev’s cheeks. “A recon mission you were on or a lesson-teaching one?”
He glanced away, cursing under his breath.
“It was a different mission for a different time, that’s what it was.” Jaċken gestured abruptly. “You were already outnumbered, for chrissake, and then you take only one man with you to go chase down two factions of Om Rău?”
Heat burned through Dev’s chest. “There wasn’t one warrior on the team who didn’t agree with what I did.”
“Who gives a shit? Leadership isn’t about providing everyone with a happy hard-on. It’s about the ability to make difficult decisions.” Jaċken thrust to his feet. “We clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Dev stood, too, fighting the urge to ball his hands into fists. “And I should probably make it clear that if I had it to do all over again, I’d make the same decision.” Because he hadn’t been fucking wrong.
Jaċken paused, then exhaled forcefully. “You’re one of the best fighters I have, Dev, quick and strong and a great strategist, but this is where you fall off the vine—you do what you want to do and damn the consequences. I have plans for you, but you need to learn to view the big picture when you’re out in the field and not just your own self-involved version of it.”
Dev’s throat filled, but this time, he kept his comment to himself.
“I won’t pull you off leadership for now. But I need you to think about what I said.” Jaċken jerked his chin toward the door. “Hit the showers.”
Dev turned on his heel and stalked out of the rec room, heading straight for the armory. He slammed his mangled M4 into the gun rack, then took off for the mansion’s front door rather than continuing one more flight up to his bedroom. He smelled like a dump—an actual pile of shit or a garbage site, it was a toss-up—but, screw it. He was going to Garwald’s Pub for a drink.
Chapter Seven
Luvera stole soundlessly along the mansion’s second floor landing, the thick burgundy Berber carpet silencing her footsteps. Murals of famous European cities decorated the doors lining the hallway on either side of her. Rome, with a beautiful depiction of the Colosseum came first, situated right across from Paris and its famous, soaring Eiffel Tower. Here, she faltered. This was Tonĩ’s former room, now occupied by her brother, Alex, the only man on this floor of single males who wasn’t a warrior. She stared at the door for several long minutes, until she started to feel stupid, then moved on. From Rome, the doors continued along with Oslo, London, Dublin—her brother, Dev’s, room—and Berlin, Jaċken’s old room, now home to Vinz. On the other side, Paris led to Copenhagen, Vienna, Amsterdam, which, with its whimsical tulips, was the oddest room to give to Nỵko Brun, the biggest, scariest-looking warrior of them all. And next door to that, her destination: Istanbul.
She knocked right on the soaring minarets of the Blue Mosque.
A moment later, the door swung open, and Shọn Brun stepped into the jamb.
To say that Shọn was the smallest of the three Half-Rău Brun brothers would be officially accurate, but far from precisely descriptive. Being a few inches shorter than his brother, Jaċken—it wasn’t even fair to compare him to gigantic Nỵko—didn’t qualify him as small . And if his muscles bulged a little less, they were still steely and whipcord taut, not an ounce of softening fat visible on his body.
He had strong, angular features, a sullen mouth, and his eyes were black and bright at the same time, like coals halfway through the process of becoming diamonds. His hair was currently a mass of tangled
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