Page 17 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
“Just do it gently."
"Define gently." Gregor pushed.
"Don’t let her hit the ground. Don’t let anything else hit her. And for the love of God, don’t let her see the guns before I’vehad a chance to explain why we’ve brought guns to Edinburgh," I said.
The last hour was a blur.
The hills grew steeper, the air colder. The sign for Edinburgh appeared, and my pulse kicked up another notch.
Artem was a statue beside me, his face set in lines of concentration.
Gregor was a shadow in the back, his eyes sharp, his hand resting on the door handle as if he was already preparing to move.
And then, there it was. The city. Edinburgh, sprawled out before us, a tangle of stone and spires and history. The rain had stopped, but the streets glistened under the gray sky, the pavement slick with water.
I took a deep breath. "We’re here."
Artem didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His scent had already changed. The shared scent was thicker and heavier than it had been for months.
We were here and ready.
Gregor’s voice was a rumble from the back. "Left at the next light. The post office is two blocks down."
“We need an address for where she lives. Call your contact.” I turned the wheel, the tires hissing against the wet road. The car slowed as we approached Lothian Road and I parked the car on a side street.
Somehow God thought we must have done something good. Probably saving Mary from her father. But a woman left a doorway and waddled her way down the street and past the car. A small terrier bounced alongside her.
“There she is,” Gregor whispered as if his voice ceased to exist. “There’s our omega.”
“Fuck!” Artem groaned. “She looks beautiful.”
“Find out who lives at the cafe.”
“She might’ve been having a coffee.”
I turned my phone to him. “It closed at five o’clock.”
4
Maeve
It was raining asI walked from the corner shop. In Edinburgh, saying it was raining was like saying the sky was up. The mist was fine and gray, and it turned the cobblestones of the old city into mirrors, which was picturesque if you were a tourist but a death trap if you were about to drop a baby and your center of gravity had gone on strike.
Fergus made a yip, so I picked him up and tucked him inside my duffel coat, pinning him against my chest. He weighed three pounds which meant he contributed nothing to warmth, stability, or personal safety. What he did contribute was a small, vibrating heartbeat against my ribs, and on most days, that was enough for me to keep going.
As we headed home, he again made what he thought sounded like a growl through gritted teeth. To others it was far too high-pitched.
"Fergus, don't," I muttered as I looked around me.
But Fergus didn't listen. He never listened. Fergus was a Yorkshire Terrier who had been on this earth for approximately two years and had spent every one of them operating under the assumption that he was a Rottweiler.
I turned the corner into my side street, my shopping bag swinging in one hand, and stopped walking.
There was a man at the door of the Highland Bean.
I’d been running from dangerous men for three years and had gotten rather good at it. So, I did what sensible people do in those situations, I hesitated for a second while wondering if I should turn and run, but then I looked more closely at the man.
Tall, athletic build with dark hair, plastered flat by the rain. He was standing in the downpour in what looked like a charcoal suit, the fabric drinking up the wet. He was just standing there, staring at my hand-painted sign like it had said something offensive about his mother.
