Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"So… how was shopping?"

Rosalie flips her head up and glares at me.

Out of those godawful, sky-high heels and absent the layers of urban warpaint, she's sprawled out on the sofa by the fire. Scrubbed pink and sporting yet another one of McCarty's ratty olive drab tees, frankly, Rosalie looks about as tired as I feel. I'm not stupid enough to tell her that, though, so instead, I just grin at the shitty, oversized t-shirt and plop down on the opposite sofa.

"Well? How was it?" I ask again, kicking my bare feet up on the table between us.

Still shoving still-damp strands of hair into a messy ponytail, she rolls her baby-blue eyes at me and spits out a huffy, "I hate you so fucking much. I'm never, ever doing this shit again."

"What?" I try and fail miserably at feigned innocence. "You had Feliks. What more company could you want?"

An orange and navy shopping bag sails past my head. "I almost deballed that fucker."

I laugh at that, hard enough she's probably going to kick my ass if I don't stop.

Stretching, I grab the now battered bag from its landing spot at the end of my couch and yank out a brown and khaki checkered tote and matching wallet. Even I recognize that pattern. A dozen other shopping bags with equally pricey names sit in the corner. "Holy," I say, letting out a low, approving whistle. "You spent some money."

"No, I spent Aronov's money. I even bought you some shit." Shrugging like it's any other day, Rosalie shoots me a mischievous grin. "I mean, it's the least I could do."

I throw the bag and its small fortune's worth of contents behind the couch and snort. "Just don't tell McCarty. He'll probably be jealous."

Now it's her turn to laugh because I'm not wrong. That man can spend other people's money like there's no tomorrow. Shoulders still shaking, she cracks the cap on her mineral water and takes a long swig. "By the way, I saw Spooky this morning."

My brows arch. "Yeah?"

"She grabbed me in the changing room of some expensive-ass store I can't pronounce." Rosalie makes an ugly face. "That dumbass guard was about to pass out by then – never mind, I was the one in the fucking heels – so, he decided to wait outside and chug espressos at the café next door."

Typical.

I swipe one of the recently delivered snacks off the shiny silver tray sitting in the middle of the table. It's a fancy tarte-type thing with dark chocolate drizzle and a mountain of liqueur-laden berries. Like everything else Aronov's staff serves, it's better than sex, and, no lie, I have to bite back the involuntary moan that threatens to spill out. "Well, what's going on?" I ask between mouthfuls.

"Platt says she's sure someone in her organization is on Aronov's payroll."

I'd like to say I'm surprised by that little revelation, but I'm not, not after that less-than-pleasant conversation before we got on the plane in Vienna. It certainly explains how Aronov managed to take out all those operatives so easily. "Does she have a name yet?"

"No, but she says she's close. I almost feel sorry for whoever it is." Rosalie shakes her head. "I don't think she's going to settle for a trial and due process."

"Do you blame her?"

"Nope. If I were in her shoes, I'd blow up the goddamned planet if I had to."

I smirk at that. "I'm sure McCarty will be flattered to hear it."

On cue, Rosalie flashes me a flat, hateful glare that could probably make an entire platoon run screaming. In fact, I'd pay good money to see that, and before I can stop myself, my cheeks crease with silent laughter, which just makes her even madder. That fresh-faced pink turns crimson, burning as bright as the fire in the hearth.

"Anyway," she says, forcing a smile through gritted teeth. "Al also mentioned that Eli's positioned a pair of his kidon teams somewhere in Florence. They're just sitting, for now, basically waiting for the signal."

"Shit," I mutter before cramming the second half of my dessert in my mouth. "He wasn't kidding." Since no one's around to care, I lick the liqueur-laced crumbs off my fingers, wipe my hands on one of the fine cloth napkins sitting by the tray, and tilt my head back against the cushions. "But it's probably good that he did. We may need them."

"Why's that?"

We spend the next ten minutes going over the conversation between Aronov and those two Congolese warlords. With each passing second, that nail-spitting scowl of hers returns, but this time, there's not a hint of play in her expression nor in the stiffness of her posture. By the time I detail the arrangements with Markovsky to supply the air support and rockets, she's as pissed off as I've ever seen her.

Shooting up from her corner on the sofa, Rosalie paces the room like a caged lioness. On her third circuit, she growls out a low, angry, "Can we please kill them now?"

I don't answer at first, and for a long moment, I just stare into the red-orange flames as they lap against the soot-stained tile and fill the room with their pulsing waves of luxuriant heat. "Soon," I finally say, as much to myself as to her. "I think this will all be over very soon."

"I hope so."

A soft knock breaks the silence.

On reflex, I bolt up and pad across the plush Persian rug. About the time I make it to the door and grab the knob, there's another quiet knock, and I don't have to guess who it is. No, for whatever reason, despite all logic, that internal radar of mine pings, and I just know. I throw Rosalie a look over my shoulder, but she's already gone. I catch a sliver of olive drab as she slips inside the adjacent bedroom.

Slowly, taking a deep breath, I crack open the door and peek out like I don't have a clue.

Masen's eyes find mine instantly. Like this morning in Aronov's private lounge, they're dark and alive, traveling across my features like I'm some puzzle he's bound and determined to solve. It's a disarming sensation being watched with this kind of intensity and focus, especially here in the belly of my target's domain. Still, nonetheless, the intoxicating blend of excitement and fear sends involuntary gooseflesh down my back and leaves me breathless.

When he says nothing, I give him a small smile and cock an arrogant brow. "This is a surprise."

"We need to talk," he says, so very quietly. He steals quick, furtive glances up and down the hall before turning back to me. "Can I come in?"

Well, this ought to be good.

My forehead folds in mock confusion, but I swing the door wider to let him in. He strides past me without hesitation, stopping only once he hits the center of the room. When he spins around to face me, like always, his gaze seeks out every nook and cranny. When it lands on the pile of shopping bags in the corner, despite the urgency and tension radiating out from his entire being, his lips twitch in a split-second of silent amusement.

"What's wrong?" Leaning against the back of the nearest sofa, I take in the harsh planes of his stupidly handsome face. Beneath the usual dark-on-dark ensemble, his shoulders flex, tense and ready to spring.

"Look," he says softly, shoving a rough hand through his hair. It's a mess right now, a veritable bird's nest of bronze and burned copper sticking out all over and signaling hours' worth of agitation. I wonder if he realizes it's such an obvious tell. Or if he even cares. "I don't have a lot of time."

I still. "What does that mean?"

"I have to leave." One hand falls to his hip while the other scrubs the days' old stubble on his chin. "I won't be gone long. I should be back tomorrow night. Worst case, day after tomorrow."

"Okay," I say, drawing it out like I'm not quite sure why he's telling me. "Where are you going?"

"I have to fly to Greece." His jaw ticks. "Aro wants me to… check on Alex."

My nose crinkles. "Who?"

Shoulders bouncing in silent laughter, Masen looks past me through the open door into my bedroom to Aronov's Chagall, where it hangs on the opposite wall. His lips mash into a wry, almost cynical smile. Just when I think he's not going to answer me, he turns back. "Alex Retzos. Aro introduced you in Vienna."

"Right." Pushing off the couch, I wave a random hand. "The guy with the boat." That wry smile of his warms at my sarcasm, just a little, and I ask, "Why?"

"There's some problems with a shipment... Supply chain issues." He scrubs his chin again. "That's why he called this morning."

Supply chain issues… yeah, okay.

I take a chance, just to see if he'll bite. "What kind of shipment?"

Masen's eyes again find mine. A war rages in every one of his features, and it's impossible not to note the increasingly dark shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. He rams his fingers through his hair again before finally blowing out a loud breath. "Drugs mostly…" he replies, spitting it out. "Opium, morphine, heroin, the usual shit coming out of Afghanistan."

I don't say anything for a moment. When he doesn't either, I give him a little bit of trust right back. "You mean that shipment from Gwadar into Rotterdam?"

This time, Masen's the one who freezes. "What do you know about that?"

"Not much." I shrug. "Only what I heard during that conversation at Aronov's little shindig, the one between him, Alex, and that Albanian guy."

"Jovan…" He takes a step left and then back right. For someone who's always so utterly self-possessed, the level of stress rolling off him is stunning. "Jovan Dobroshi."

"Yeah," I nod. "That's the one. He looked… rough, like he'd just assume kill you as look at you."

"He is." Masen blows out another slow breath. "Honestly, he's almost as bad as Kaius." Making a sound somewhere in between a laugh and a snort, he adds, "They all are."

We're quiet for a minute and just eye each other across the room. "So, Aronov's sending you to get Alex back in line?"

Another huff of air punches out. "Something like that."

I glance over to the fire right as one of the charred logs near the bottom disintegrates, sending up a spray of red-hot, glowing sparks. When I look back, his jaw rolls again, like he already knows what I'm going to ask. "Are you being sent to kill him?"

"No," he whispers. "Not yet."

"But maybe one day?"

Slowly, Masen nods, and his gaze slides away, like he really, really doesn't like the idea of me knowing this side of him. When he speaks again, his voice goes flat and lifeless. "It's a possibility."

But there's something else going on with him, something that happened sometime between this morning and now. By all accounts, taking out someone like Retzos – a trafficker and drug smuggler with more than enough blood on his hands who hides behind a corporate façade – shouldn't weigh on his conscience like this, if at all. My eyes narrow as I study the sag in his shoulders and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Hanging limply by his side, his thumb flicks across his forefinger.

"Are you okay?"

"No, not really." He lets out a soft, bitter laugh. "But that's irrelevant right now." He straightens when I step toward him, and all those little tells abruptly vanish. "I need you to lay low while I'm gone."

Even though I want to push him and find out what's going on, I don't. I know better. Instead, I let him steer the conversation where he originally wanted it to go. "And why's that?"

His brows climb his forehead. "If it wasn't obvious from the ride back, Aro's in a… mood."

Of course, I noticed. It'd been impossible not to. Staring out the window, stewing and glaring at the whole world, he'd looked like a pissed-off toddler who'd just lost all his favorite toys. "So… he's having a tantrum."

The laugh that tumbles out of Masen's mouth lacks any semblance of humor. No, it's withering and angry. "When he's like this," Masen says. "It doesn't take much to set him off. Bad things happen." He steps into me, corralling me backward until my ass hits the back of the couch. "Do you get what I'm saying?"

I gulp like I'm supposed to.

"After dinner tonight, tell him you're tired," he goes on. That tight, clipped urgency comes roaring back, and he's again all focus and rigid command. "Headache. Something. I don't care what excuses you have to make, stay away from him til I get back." He glances behind him to Rosalie's bedroom door. "Same for Rosalie. Now's not the time to play games. Aro won't play nice."

Neither will I.

Instinct has me itching for my weapons, but we don't have time for that if he's on his way out. So instead of arguing, I just run my fingertips along the tops of his forearms, tracing those pretty, flexing lines of sinewy muscle. "All right…"

"Also, in case something happens and I'm not back in time." Masen pauses just long enough to frame my hips with his palms. Warm and solid, his grip feels like the most natural thing in the world. "You need to be aware that this weekend there'll be some… guests here at the compound."

He says guests like it's a curse. "Who?" I ask.

Masen's Adam's apple dips beneath the collar of his button-up. "Kaius and Aro's brother-in-law, Aleksandr."

Oh, fuck, yes.

Before I can reply, he repositions me, kneeing his way between my thighs. "If I'm not back, I need you to disregard what I just said about Aro. Stick next to him at all times, and do whatever you have to do to stay there."

While I appreciate the sentiment and effort it took Masen to spit that last part out, there's no possible way that I'm fucking that man, no matter what's at stake. But then again, Masen doesn't realize that I have alternative options, like shooting him in the face.

I huff. "You just said to stay away from him."

"I know," Masen replies, scowling, even as his grip tightens. "But Aro was pissed when I told him about Kaius. His ego won't allow that kind of disrespect."

I don't know what my face betrays, but a beat later, he releases my hips, and a pair of rock-hard arms pull me against an even harder chest. Mine automatically circle his waist, and then I hear a soft, muffled, exhausted, "Just... do what I tell you. Please," against my hair. Being me, my natural inclination is to argue, but the quiet, unashamed desperation in his voice might as well be a punch to my ribcage.

"Fine, I'll behave," I say, pressing my lips to the dip in his throat. "But when you get back, we have some things to talk about."

For an all-too-brief moment, it looks like he wants to push and ask me here and now. Instead, he checks his wrist over my shoulder. His chin ducks in a sharp, succinct nod, and before I can't blink, his lips find mine in a slow, deep, open-mouth kiss that sucks the air from my chest and threatens to make my knees go weak.

He's gone right after that, disappearing out the door as quiet as a church mouse. The second the latch clicks shut, another behind me opens, and when I turn, Rosalie crosses her arms over her chest. Those perfectly sculpted brows of hers are damned near to her hairline.

"Well, well…" She shoots me a megawatt grin. "What have you been up to?"

Of course, I just flip her off with a low, muttered, "Shut up, Hale," as I amble over to the window. Pulling back the heavy silk drapes, I study the line of shadows slowly chasing the lingering light across the yard. In the distance, Aronov's winery looms large and darkly vacant.

When Rosalie strolls up beside me, she follows my line of sight. "So, what are you thinking?"

I eye her askance before giving her my own little grin. "You up for a little hide and seek tonight?"

"Fuck, yes. I thought you'd never ask."

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Notes: