Celt. (Den of Mercenaries Book 2) (19 page)

“I have more questions, you know.”

“Ask and I’ll answer.”

“And you owe me an apology,” she said laying her hand against his chest and giving a push. “You pointed a gun in my face.”

Kyrnon pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, then tilted her face up to claim her lips. “Then let me apologize.”

“Okay.”

For a moment, she could almost pretend that they were back in his loft, and it was just the pair of them. It may have been the fear, coupled with not knowing what would happen next, but she clung to him, too afraid to let go.

“
S
ince that vein
in your temple isn’t jumping anymore, I’m wagering all is forgiven?”

Having left Amber after spending an hour showing her just how sorry he was, Kyrnon was not in any mood to deal with Red’s shite. With a keyboard in his lap, he scanned through a multitude of banking statements, doing as much as he could to find the buyer while Winter handled other things from her end.

Despite now having a name, he couldn’t find anything on the Bronson Organization, just as Elliot had said.

“I thought I changed the codes to my locks,” Kyrnon said, too distracted by what he was reading to truly care that the man had bypassed his system.

“Winter let me in.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Kyrnon said as he tore his eyes away from the screen, even as he tossed the keyboard down. “Someone needs to put a leash on that girl before she goes too far.”

Niklaus was perpetually in a bad state, so he wasn’t fazed in the slightest in the face of Kyrnon’s anger. “You might want to take a breath. Mistakes are made when you let your emotions control you. You were the one that taught me that, no?”

And it had been a grueling lesson, one that Kyrnon had learned himself back when he was a lad, forced to fight in Duncan’s ring until the skin of his knuckles was split open and bleeding.

He had learned how to bury that fear, push it so far down that it was no longer a thought.

“It’s too late for that. The mistake has already been made.”

“But not one you can’t come recover from.”

Resting his elbows on the table, Kyrnon rubbed his hands through his hair. “Only if we find whoever owns the Bronson Organization. Who in the hell needs this much concealment?”

Nothing.

Not in the hours he’d searched, or what little Winter had been able to provide, was getting him any closer to the answer he sought.

“Still nothing?” Calavera asked as she came in.

“Just a bunch of corporations that don’t mean shite,” Kyrnon supplied.

“Anywhere?” Calavera looked troubled. “No one’s that good at hiding … unless they have help. Have you tried contacting the Kingmaker?”

Kyrnon’s hand tightened into a fist at the reminder of his last conversation with the man. “If he does, he’s not telling me. Perhaps he’ll respond if you ask.”

“Trust me, he won’t tell me anything,” she said carefully, but in the next moment, she looked uncomfortable—an expression rarely seen on her. “I know someone, I think. He may have a name.”

“Don’t hold us in suspense,” Red said throwing a hand up. “Who is he?”

“His name is Kit Runehart. He’s a facilitator—of sorts.”

Kyrnon rolled the name around in his head, trying to recall whether or not he had heard it before, but he came up blank. “What in the hell is he facilitating?”

He might not have known the name, but there was a possibility that he had heard of his work instead.

“A few years ago, the daughter of this judge in Massachusetts needed a heart transplant, but despite his connections, the judge couldn’t get her any higher on the list. He went to Kit who found him one for the right price.”

Kyrnon frowned. Despite the good intentions, there was one thing that didn’t sound good at all. “And what did he have to do to get a child’s heart?”

There were ghosts in her eyes as she said, “You already know the answer to that.”

Taking a heart from one to give to another … Kyrnon didn’t know what to think of that.

“What will he want in exchange for this information?” He had plenty of money and wouldn’t think twice about paying any price to get the information.

“I’ll take care of it. You’ll just owe me a favor in the future.”

Mercenaries and their debts. “You have my word.”

“Expect a call within the hour.”

Kyrnon hoped she was right as he watched her walk out the door. He had the feeling he was running out of time.

T
here were
a dozen or more places many feared to tread, simply because of the danger that lurked around the corners. But the champagne bar on 22nd and Rosewood didn’t scare people off. No, with its elegance and flawless decor, it attracted a certain crowd, making the patrons feel as though nothing could touch them within its four walls.

But Luna knew what kind of secrets the place held—and knew that despite the appearance of the owner, he was the cause of some of the danger many ran from.

How long had it been since she voluntarily stepped into this place? There was always that fear in the back of her mind that should she ever enter, she wouldn’t be allowed to leave, like invisible shackles were tightening around her ankles.

But she would do this, for her friend’s sake.

She knew all too well what it was like to lose someone you loved—they all did in their own way—and if she could do something to fix that, she would.

Even if it meant making a deal with the last person anyone
ever
wanted to make a deal with.

Luna had barely put the Porsche in park before an attendant was hurrying around to her side, ready to perform any task if she asked. Since she had called and requested a meeting with
him
not even an hour ago, she didn’t doubt that he had made these preparations on her behalf.

He still didn’t understand that she wasn’t moved by any of it.

Especially now that she had her own.

But then again, having grown up with very little, she didn’t place much value in material things.

Passing her keys to the boy that looked barely older than nineteen, she started for the intricate doors just ahead, made by a man gifted in the art of welding metals.

If she remembered correctly, it had taken three months for the concept, and another six to complete them. Now, they were the perfect addition to the architecture of the building.

But
he
had always had an eye for those kinds of details.

Without prompting, the doors were opened, warm light brightening an otherwise darkened interior. The walls and ceiling were both painted a cream color, but the tables, and even the tall bar stools were black. It made the place look cleaner, more appealing.

Considering it was seven o’clock on a Friday night, Luna was surprised that the place was empty—and that wasn’t to say there were a couple of people dining. No one was there at all.

Taking a look around, she was tempted to walk right back out the doors, wanting to avoid any interaction with him—especially since when she had seen him last, she had made it quite clear that she would rather die than come to him for aid.

She only hoped he wouldn’t throw those words back at her.

As she was about to call out, one of the double doors leading into the kitchen swung open, a woman in a tight black dress and six-inch heels appeared, looking directly at her. Long auburn hair fell pin-straight down her back, complementing pale skin without a freckle in sight.

Aidra, her name was.

The woman didn’t age. For all Luna knew, she could have still been in her late thirties, but it couldn’t be seen in her youthful features. In what little time they had spent together, she had never bothered to ask the woman’s age—not that she thought she would have gotten an answer.

Not only did Aidra not share the secrets of her employer, but she never revealed a single thing about herself either.

Sometimes Luna wondered whether the conversations she remembered had truly happened, or if they were just a figment of her imagination.

“Kit is waiting for you,” Aidra said, her expression unreadable—or perhaps Luna wanted it to be unreadable because she wanted the other woman to actually show emotion.

Taking a calming breath, Luna started in that direction, counting each step she made just to have something to focus on other than the quickened tempo of her heart.

How long would it take before the mere mention of his name no longer had an effect on her?

How long would it be until she could move on from him?

The kitchen smelled of cleaning supplies and the lightest trace of lemons, but that all faded to the back of her mind as she got her first glimpse of him across the room at a special chef’s table set up specifically for certain clientele. It provided an unobstructed view of the food being prepared, and because of its position and the extra vents in place, it stayed moderately cool.

Unlike his brother, Kit Runehart didn’t often wear color, choosing black silk shirts to go along with his black suits. It was understated in intention, but it spoke volumes about him.

Whether he knew it or not.

The closer she came, the more she felt that familiar tether that had always drawn her to him—that invisible force that refused to let her go. There were times, very much like this one, where she felt like she was helpless but to obey whatever he asked of her, even if it went against everything she wanted.

And for the life of her, she didn’t understand it.

He was so different from his brother. He didn’t dabble in affairs. He didn’t use people like pawns to further his own empire. But then again, the very things that made them different were the same traits that made them the same.

Kit, too, was skilled in the art of fixing otherwise bad situations, but his specialty was supply and demand.

If there was something one needed, he could procure it.

Cars.

Mansions.

Kidneys.

Murderers.

No matter its hiding place, he could find it.

He was the facilitator, and he was damn good at what he did.

Upon first glance, Kit looked rather unassuming. He had rather kind features, though with a rugged jaw, and piercing eyes that could see into the depths of a person. His eyebrows, which arced down and made him look perpetually curious, also softened what would otherwise be hardened features.

But looks were deceiving.

As much as he could look innocent, there was something far darker that simmered beneath the surface.

She knew what those hands of his were capable of, the pain they inflicted when he was inspired.

He was six and a half feet of muscle and lethal power.

An eclipse, she always thought.

Though he was aware that she had joined him—Aidra having disappeared back out the door—he didn’t look to her just yet. He was too busy reading a message on his phone, his thumb flying over the screen as he typed a message in return.

But when he did finally look up, and those gray eyes of his snared her, she was held captive there, waiting to see how he would react.

Six months was a record for them, she thought.

Kit could be possessive, sometimes to an overbearing degree, so the fact that he had left her alone over this period of time was a testament of his control.

Or perhaps it was another of his games—he always was the best at playing them.

“Luna,” he said her name softly, like a prayer, and she hated the way she felt when she heard it. She wasn’t supposed to be affected by him, not after what he did, but she missed him.

More than she ever wanted to admit.

“Kit.”

She was glad for once that her voice didn’t waver, that her emotions didn’t betray her. Having spent so long trying to show that she was more than just an extension of him, she didn’t want to crumple the moment she was back in his presence.

“Please,” he said getting to his feet once she reached the table. “Have a seat. Are you hungry?”

He didn’t touch her as he gestured to the other side of the booth for her to slip in—he never touched her without her consent. One of those many rules of his, but it was one that was more for her than him. It gave her some control, even when she felt she had none.

As she glanced down at the place setting in front of her, she was tempted to decline, but knew there was no point in denying him. Somehow, he usually got what he wanted.

“I could eat.”

Kit studied her a moment before calling out to someone, this time a man in a waiter’s outfit came strolling in, pushing a cart along with him. There were a number of covered plates on it. As he went about explaining the dishes that he was now setting before them, Luna tuned his words out, dropping her hands to her lap to keep herself from fidgeting.

She could
feel
his eyes on her, like a physical touch as he looked at her like it was the very first time. Finally, once the waiter was on his way after pouring them both a glass of wine, Luna could finally ask, “Why are you staring at me?”

“Am I not allowed to look at my wife?”

God, how those words used to turn her into quivering goo. It wasn’t just the accent, she had grown used to that, it was also that Welsh charm.

“Nothing has changed since the last time we were together,” she said, picking up her fork, realizing too late what her words would have sounded like to him.

“Shall we test that theory?” he asked, mimicking her action. “I’m sure I can spot the differences.”

As much time as he spent learning her body, she didn’t doubt that he would be able to detect the smallest of changes on her. “No,” she said, careful to keep her tone light. “I’m not here for me.”

“No?” Cutting into his bass, he speared a bite of flaky fish and extended it across the table.

And before she realized it, she was opening her mouth, accepting what he offered. It was second nature, like breathing.

Focus!

“Then who are you here for?”

“A friend.”

“Named?”

“Celt.”

A brief flicker of jealousy lit up his eyes, and she finally saw that first touch of his temper—and worse, it spiked her own desire for him.

“One of Uilleam’s, I wager?”

She shook her head. “As am I.”

Kit ignored that. “And what is it that this friend of yours wants?”

He didn’t sound particularly upset as he asked the question, so Luna took this as a good thing. Maybe if she kept their conversation on safer topics, this wouldn’t have to end badly. “We need a name.”

“I know plenty of those. Whose name in particular?”

“Gabriel Monte sold a forgery to a shell company based here in New York, but we can’t find the name of the owner.”

“And the name of the company …”

“The Bronson Organization.” His eyes flashed—he recognized it. “Do you know the owner?”

Picking up his wine glass, he swirled the contents, bringing it up to his nose to smell a moment before he finally took a sip. “Tell me. This assignment, did it belong to you or your friend?”

Not sure why it mattered, Luna chose to answer anyway. “Him.”

“And how long have you known him?”

Did they really have to do this? “Years.”

“I don’t recall anyone by that name associating with you until three years after you went to Zachariah.”

Ran
from
him
was the better way to phrase that sentence, but Luna didn’t bother to correct him. “You asked me how long have I known him, not how it compares to my relationship with you.”

Carefully, he set his fork down, clasping his hands in front of him as he leaned towards her. “Is that how you want to play this, Luna?”

“Ask the question you want an answer to,” she said meeting his unwavering gaze, repeating back words he had once said to her.

“You’re my wife and you avoid me like the plague, yet you’ll come because your
friend
requests it. Why?”

Luna shook her head. “I came because he needed me to.”

“Didn’t I need you?” He asked, and almost looked wounded.

Almost.

Looking at him just then, she could almost fool herself into believing he meant those words. Despite herself, she could still remember the day she left him.

He had made her a promise once that should she ever want to leave him, he wouldn’t make her stay.

And that day, despite how loudly he demanded she remain in his home, he didn’t stop her from walking out the door. The minute she was out of the house, the doors closing at her back, she could hear the destruction he wrought as he destroyed everything within reaching distance.

She heard his anger.

She heard his frustration.

But the sound of it had only made her run faster, crying all the way, if only because she would have went back to him if she hadn’t.

Focusing back on the present, Luna ignored his question and asked one of her own. “Will you give me the name?”

“Are you asking as my wife or my brother’s employee?”

The latter was at the tip of her tongue, but she held those words back, trying to figure how he would react to either answer. He had always been more empathetic towards her than others, and usually more times than not, he and Uilleam were in the middle of a disagreement.

“Can I not be both?”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “You came here for my assistance, you play by my rules. You should know them better than anyone, right, love?”

“Kit, I don’t have time for this.” And while it only felt like a short time, she couldn’t be sure how long it had been since she was with Celt and Red.

“Then answer the question.”

“Your wife,” Luna said on a rush. “I’m asking as your wife. Now, please. Give me a name.”

“A name in exchange for permission.”

As his words penetrated, she felt a flush of desire, but it was overshadowed by her disbelief. “Don’t do that. Don’t use this against me.”

“That’s what I want.”

She wouldn’t accept that. “Pick something else.”

“That’s the
only
payment I’ll accept. So tell me, how much are you willing to give for that friend of yours?”

He wasn’t holding back anymore, that temper of his flashing in his eyes. She had underestimated him … again.

“The choice is yours, Luna,” he said softly, though there was no one around to hear—but he had always treated her like she was the only person in the room. “Don’t allow your misplaced loyalty to force you into something you don’t want.”

“And it’s not you that’s putting me there?” she asked, pushing her plate away. “It’s about your need for control over everything—even me.”

“Is that what you think?”