Page 8 of Apollo

She had to survive this.

Somehow, in some way, she had to figure out how to survive this—whatever this had even become—and find a way to contact Ito before the media picked up on the connection between her double failures of the evening. Worse, that the yakuza boss would connect the dots to the logical conclusion about it all: that she was no closer to finding Natasha Korra or Reks Byrd, despite the carte blanche he’d given her to all his resources and information.

Not that it’d been that free.

Genny.

He’d lock her up even tighter now. At the very least.

What would he do if Wen didn’t report back at all? Her sister was nothing close to what a yakuza oyabun would call an asset. Social cues were no better than dust mites to Genny, unless someone was in the mood to learn every detail in the world about movie musicals or practical prop design. She highly doubted Ito and his men were dying to watch a double feature of Xanadu and Chicago, let alone be lectured about how every inch of their props were created. But no way would the mafia leader simply send her home to LA.

But he’d figure out some way to make a profit from her . . .

No, no, no. Hell freaking no.

The word was too common a refrain now, when she needed to boot her brain toward the light at the other side of the tunnel. Yes, you will survive this. Yes, it’s okay to play temporary groupie and ride Eddie Van Blondie out of here, even after he made his fingers like magical liquid stitch on your worst wounds. Yes, you will get to Genny in time. You always have; you always will.

“Yes. Yes.”

It was hardly a choke of breath let alone a real sound, but she turned it into her nonstop mantra against the muscled ball of his shoulder as they soared up the fiery flume.

Up?

The tag was also as relative as the more linear parts of her logic by this point. If the tornado alignment held, the vertical lift felt right, but every fragment of her senses was still coated in the guttural glue of his baritone promise.

Hell . . . well . . . if you insist . . .

So, were they rising . . . down? Falling . . . up?

Neither absurdity made sense. Nor did her balance or steadiness or any semblance of direction. Her hair blew in every direction; the hot winds buffeted her from right, left, up, down, backward, forward—

Until they suddenly didn’t.

The silence, as entirely too many assholes in her life had said, was deafening. Yet here was karma, checking in as the biggest bitch on the block, with a new atmosphere that would make a cemetery seem like a great place for a rager. The male to which she still clung like ivy on a headstone was cooperating too damn accurately with the vibe, as responsive as cement while he crossed a wide space before leaning over and setting her down on a cushioned surface of some sort.

That certainly flashed her eyes open.

Nearly in the same moment, she grimaced through a pair of stabbing pains. Even if Mr. Magical Fingers had actually healed her back at the mansion—still a big if; since she’d probably hallucinated that glowing arrow in her chest and the matching nimbus around his beautiful head—he hadn’t been able to repair all the damage before his strange crow squad apparently sent up the warning signal about the sirens screaming up the hill.

Ahhh, now there was the doozie delirium of the night. Because nobody conversed with crows like that, right? Issued them orders like some corvid SWAT team? Then after that, actively listened in return, as if their obnoxious squawks were sit reps and updates?

Was any of this real?

Maybe . . . it wasn’t.

Not for the first time since she’d been skewered by Natasha Korra’s chandelier, a disgusting probability filled her mind. The delusions were really just that, because she was really just dead. She didn’t just open her eyes to discover the surface upon which he’d placed her was actually a sprawling gray velvet couch out of her wildest interior decorating dreams, centered in a living room that checked off most of the same boxes. The space was a soothing but captivating mix of Victorian class with modern strength, leading her gaze to soaring windows bracketed by creamy brocade drapes. Those were accented by tall, corkscrew-shaped topiaries housed in Asian-influenced urns.

But none of it sucked her breath from her lungs as thoroughly as the obvious master of this decadent house.

Damn it.

If years of professional headhunting had taught her nothing else, it was that viewing a dude in his mancave spoke indisputable facts about him. An obscene truth, especially now. Never had she seen a male more accurately matched to his space. He dropped a knee next to her with more rakish confidence than every duke in the ton. Slammed a hand against the back of the sofa as if preparing to snap his topiaries like toothpicks. Finally, he dropped down until again aligning his face with hers, and mere inches separated their noses. But unlike the first time, Wen was sure she wasn’t about to die beneath him.

Or was she?

His gaze flashed with we-meet-at-dawn ferocity. His nostrils backed up the promise with subtle but steady flares. Beneath them, his sculpted lips twisted with inherent demand, though it quickly turned into the real thing.

“Stay. Here.”