Page 19 of Cruel Kiss

"Well, isn't that nice?" I say. "Eat up."

Ronan sets the spatula down as my daughter happily returns to her food.

"What did you tell her?" he asks.

I look at him. This man. This damnman.This whole enormous disaster of a man, standing in my kitchen in a slept-in shirt with a spot of dried blood on his collar, making mouse-eared pancakes for my children with hands that shot somebody on my stairs twelve hours ago.

One day, I'll understand him.

Today is not that day.

"The truth," I reply. "That I hate you."

He weighs that thoughtfully. "And?"

"She didn't believe me, either."

6

CALI

After dinner, I sit on the edge of my bed and try to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do now.

The kids are asleep. The pancake plates are washed. Ronan is prowling around somewhere downstairs, probably standing near a window, sweeping his eyes over the street like he did all night on my stoop.

I've got the two cards from Agent Mercer sitting on my bedside table. Next to them sits a computer full of evidence that could put Ronan away for the rest of his life. I've got Todd's warning ringing in my ears, and Ronan's warning ringing right next to it, and I still can't decide which of them I trust less.

The facts are thus:

There are people out there who want me. There are people out there who want my kids. Some of them have official badges, but some of them just have guns and a violent grudge against the man who's currently acting like a Rottweiler in my house.

Which leaves me with just a few choices. I don't particularly love any of them.

If I run to Mercer and sing like a canary, I throw myself on her mercy—no pun intended—and hope that she's as much of a straight shooter as I thought she appeared to be.

Except I don't know if Mercer is even real, not really. And even if she is, "protection" from the FBI means putting Hayden and Isabella's names inside a federal investigation into a criminal organization. Forever.

It also does nothing about Lev. I get the feeling he's not the kind of guy to get too hot and bothered about a fancy-looking badge brandished by a woman in a JC Penny pantsuit. Lev sent a man up my stairs with zip ties and a blanket.

So if the FBI can't be trusted, who's left? Can I even trust myself?

Maybe the right move is to run Ronan's mom's old playbook: Shrink down real small and hope that, if and when somebody throws something at me, I'm not a big enough target to hit.

But I can't even finish thinking that thought before I rule it out. I've done that shit before and I refuse to ever do it again. Plus, it provides no guarantee of safety for my babies.

Therefore, we are once again at rock bottom with only one name left for company.

I hate that so much. I express that hatred with several filthy turns of phrase, uttered out loud in my empty bedroom.

The safest place for my children right now is inside the reach of the one man I swore justyesterdayI would never see again.

Think about it. He has the men. He has the reach. He put a body in a tarp and had it hauled out of my house to God knows where, and the worst result of all of it is that my daughter woke up worried that her pet caterpillar had a bad dream.

Whatever else Ronan Akov is—and he's a lot of terrible things, there's no denying that—he is the only force standing between my kids and whoever comes next.

In the end, that's the data point that settles it.

Ronan Akov is the least-bad option on a list of bad options. Nothing more.