Chapter Text
It was a series of three relatively small, yet surprisingly impactful mistakes that had led Shane directly to his current circumstances.
The first mistake was not checking in with his Uber driver as soon as he got into the scratched up sedan waiting outside his office building. A rookie move for sure, but the car's model and license plate matched the information on his app. And yeah, okay, he was maybe just a little bit exhausted because his coworkers had all decided to be particularly stupid today and he hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in the entire month since his fight with Ilya, but he'd taken like a million rideshares before with no issue. It was fine. He would be fine. He just needed a few minutes to close his eyes and take a breath and decompress, and then he'd be good as new again.
That was his second mistake. Because maybe if Shane had kept his eyes open, it wouldn't have taken him nine entire minutes to notice that the driver was heading in the exact opposite direction from his hotel.
Instead, Shane only realized what was happening when he finally glanced out the window and saw them merging onto a highway leading out of the city. The driver had put away the phone showing the directions he had been supposed to follow at some point, which was also not a good sign.
Great. This was so fucking great. Of course he was being kidnapped. He just could not catch a fucking break this month.
Shane eyed his bag laying on the seat next to him, silently cursing himself for not keeping a gun on him the way practically everyone else he knew did. To be fair, pretty much all of those people were either deputized federal agents or wanted criminals, so his sample population was definitely skewed far to the left of normal. That didn't change the fact that Shane had ignored their advice, and now he was completely weaponless in the backseat of a stranger’s car as the man drove them away from the rest of civilization. Mistake number three. Fuck.
“This isn’t the way to my hotel,” Shane finally broke the silence. His voice sounded tight in his own ears.
“Oh, is it not?” the driver asked casually as he merged smoothly through traffic. Clearly he had no plans to turn around anytime soon.
“It is not, no.”
“Huh. Guess you’ll be taking a bit of a detour, then.” The driver grinned back through the review mirror, and Shane wasn’t sure if the familiar face made him feel better or worse about the whole situation. On the bright side, he probably wasn’t being taken to a secondary location to get murdered. The downside, however...
“Dykstra. What the hell are you doing?”
“Hey, Hollzy. How’s it hanging?”
Shane huffed. Kidnapped, was how he was hanging. "I've been better, if you can believe it. What the fuck is going on?"
"I'm picking you up from work, obviously," Dykstra said easily. "Haven't seen you in a while. Wanted to say hi."
"And what, texting me about getting a coffee was too hard?"
"You don't even drink coffee. And a bunch of us did try and text you, but nothing was going through. Which is so weird, because we've never had a problem with that before." He glanced at Shane through the review mirror again. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
Shane clenched his jaw. Of course the other Centaurs were involved with this somehow. They were like idiotic crime lemmings running for a cliff. And Dykstra was right to be suspicious. Shane had blocked all the Centaurs' numbers from his phone almost immediately after Ilya had stormed out of Shane's apartment and he'd decided once and for all that he was finally fucking done with all things Rozanov.
He had also maybe been tempted to throw said phone off a bridge about nine or ten or fifteen different times in the last few weeks, but given everything that had happened that seemed like a perfectly rational reaction. Shane was not being dramatic at all, and his friend Rose from the Undercover Ops department could shut the hell up about it.
"You already know why I had to do that," Shane said instead, because he was an adult who knew how to keep his Inside Thoughts where they were supposed to be.
Dykstra nodded, but only barely. "I mean, sort of. Doesn't mean I agree with it, though."
Shane almost snorted at that. Clearly. "So you decided that kidnapping me from outside the federal offices was the next best way to get in contact?"
"Well you didn't exactly leave us a lot of options," Dykstra said defensively. "You haven't been back at your place in what, like six days?"
Six days was actually exactly how long Shane had been avoiding his apartment for, hence why he'd needed an Uber from work to a hotel in the first place. And it was definitely not comforting that Dykstra knew that. “You guys been staking out my building," he realized out loud. Why had he make friends with criminals? He was literally supposed to be arresting these people. "What was your original plan, to grab me from out of my own home or something?”
Dykstra didn’t respond, which was plenty of confirmation in and of itself.
Shane leaned heavily back into his seat. These fucking guys. “Great. That’s fucking fantastic, Dykstra, thank you so much for that.”
“It’s not like we were going to use chloroform on you or anything,” he said helpfully.
“That’s not better!” Shane snapped. “You understand how that’s not fucking better, right?”
"I mean it's at least a little better, isn't it? Objectively better than actually using it, anyway."
Shane was about two seconds from reaching for the wheel and trying to crash the car into the nearest lake. Not like that would work, though. Dykstra was the Centaurs’ main driver for a reason—Shane had seen him drift an Escalade through a completely full parking garage during an active shootout without spilling his coffee and while humming along to some terrible country music playing on the radio. All four tires could fall off and Dykstra could still get this (probably stolen, now that Shane was thinking about it) car to take him where he wanted to go. "Pull over right now, I'm getting out."
"No can do. Sorry." He did not sound very sorry.
Shane huffed. "Look, I'm sorry I left without saying anything to you guys, alright? We can make plans for lunch and call it even for the kidnapping and stalking you've apparently been doing. Bring LaPointe and Holmberg, too."
Dykstra pretended to look confused. He was bad at it. "Why Pointy and Holmes?"
"Because they've been following us in the grey minivan for the last five minutes," Shane said, eyeing the vehicle that had practically been living in Dykstra's side mirrors since they'd gotten on the highway. Holmberg was wearing bright pink sunglasses. LaPointe was slumped low in the passenger seat, chewing aggressively at his hoodie strings. "How many cars did you guys steal for this shitty op?"
Dykstra swore under his breath. "Idiots."
Shane almost cracked a smile at that. Luckily he was still pissed enough to stifle it without too much trouble. "Dykstra, let me out of this car right now now or I'm going to call the cops and tell them I'm being kidnapped."
Dykstra reached into the center console and pulled out a black remote-looking thing with a blinking green light. “Cell jammer. And I know you don't have a satellite phone on you.”
Goddammit, Wyatt had to have given him that. “Goddammit,” Shane grumbled, rubbing his hands over his face. “What the actual fuck do you guys want from me?” Shane really was at a loss for why Dykstra had even bothered to grab him in the first place. Shane didn't owe the Centaurs money, nor did he have any blackmail material on them. At least not any more material than they had on him, anyway, and neither party would ever actually use any of it. His break from the Centaurs had been perfectly clean. He'd made sure of that.
Well, that maybe wasn't entirely true. The way he and Ilya had ended things could definitely be described as messy (and loud, and gut wrenching, and Shane had barely slept more than five hours at a time since, but whatever), but that was personal. There was no reason for the rest of the organization to be getting involved in all that.
"Can you promise to be cool about it?" Dykstra asked nervously.
Shane stared at him. That was a bad sign. "You fucking kidnapped me, and you want me to promise to be cool about it? Are you fucking serious?"
"...Can you?"
"Jesus Christ, D! No!"
"Yeah, that's probably fair." Dykstra was eerily quiet for several moments. Shane could see his mouth twitching uncomfortably. “Lily wants to see you,” he finally said.
Shane’s stomach dropped so fast it literally made him dizzy. Fuck, he really should have brought a gun. Or maybe a grenade launcher. Or a tank. “No," he breathed out. "No fucking way.”
“This doesn’t have to be a big deal, you know?" Dykstra offered. "It's just a conversation.”
“Shut the fuck up," Shane snapped. “I'm not doing this. Let me out. Pull over and let me out right fucking now.”
“You know I’m not going to do that,” Dykstra said. He sounded a little guilty, which only would have made Shane feel better if there was any chance in hell Dykstra would actually feel bad enough to let him go.
“Evan Dykstra. If you don’t stop this car I am going to jump out of it and I fucking mean that,” Shane threatened, glancing out the window at the pavement they were currently speeding over. Emphasis on speeding—Dykstra was going at least fifteen over the limit. It was a miracle the rookies were able to keep up in their van. Anyway, it didn't matter. Shane could make the jump. Probably. Maybe. Probably not, but literally anything was better than talking to Ilya.
A hard click echoed through the space. Uh oh.
Shane pulled at the door handle. Then he tested the button to roll down the window. Neither budged an inch. He glared at Dykstra. “The fucking child lock? Seriously?”
“Safety measure.” Dykstra shrugged. “Can’t let you get damaged in shipping.”
“This isn’t fucking funny,” Shane hissed.
“I’m not laughing, Hollzy.”
“Do not fucking call me that." Shane ran a hand through his hair. “This is insane,” he insisted. “He’s insane! I don’t answer his texts for what, three fucking weeks and he’s sending people to fucking kidnap me?" He yanked uselessly at the door handle again. Then he slid across the backseat and tried the other door, too. "Fuck!"
"Shane, man, you gotta calm down," Dykstra said.
"Go fuck yourself," Shane spat.
“Look,” Dykstra huffed. “You’re mad, I get that, but please just come over for a little and at least try to talk it out with him.”
“Maybe I would be more open to talking it out if he’d actually bothered to fucking ask me instead of jumping straight to a fucking kidnapping plot! We are way past please come over for a chat, here,” Shane argued.
Dykstra nodded, clearly trying to seem understanding. It did not make Shane feel better. “That’s fair. But counterpoint: you’re going to see him anyway, so maybe consider your options.”
Shane scoffed incredulously. “So I should give him a chance because of the kidnapping, is what you’re saying? Do you fucking hear yourself?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I'll admit that sounded bad,” Dykstra admitted. Then, a second later, “I still think you should do it, though.”
Shane threw his hands up. “Unbelievable. You dense fucking asshole! What part of ‘I do not want to see him, I do not want to talk to him, I am done with this shit’ do you people not understand?”
“The part where you don’t want to see him, mostly,” Dykstra answered. “'Cause I know it’s not true.”
“It was a rhetorical question, Evan. I didn’t actually want an answer from you.”
“I don’t care. You're both disasters without each other, you need to talk it out," he said.
"I am not a disaster. I am fine," Shane grit out.
Dykstra rolled his eyes. "I've seen the state of your kitchen, Shane. I would not call that fine."
Shane barely had a second to be offended by the dig at his cleanliness before he realized something. "Wait, did you break in to my apartment?!"
Dykstra winced. Clearly he hadn't meant to let that bit of info slip. "Uh. No?" Shane just glared at him in silence and waited for him to crack. It didn't take long. "Fine, yes. But we just picked the lock and we shut it up tight again on our way out, okay? It's not a big deal."
Not a big deal. Shane scoffed and shook his head. "I'm going to get an alarm system."
Or four, maybe.
"Go for it, Pointy loves those things. It's like enrichment for him. One time he looped an entire neighborhood's worth of 'em together, then he threw a rock through a window at like 3AM. The whole street went off, it was hilarious."
Yeah, that sounded like Pointy. Shane would be willing to bet Young had helped him out with that. He groaned loudly into his hands. "What do I have to do to get away from you maniacs?"
"Talk to Rozy," Dykstra answered.
"Again, rhetorical question," Shane grumbled. "And if Rozanov wanted to have a conversation so bad, he would have reached out by now."
"How do you know he hasn't tried? You blocked his number."
Shane raised an eyebrow and gestured to the car he was trapped inside of. "Oh yeah, because clearly that's so effective with you guys."
Dykstra grimaced. "Touché."
"It doesn't matter anyway, because like I already said: I do not want to talk to him," Shane insisted. "It's over, Dykstra. It was a terrible fucking idea in the first place."
"You cannot honestly believe that," Dykstra protested.
"Yes, I honestly can. We are not compatible, and now we're done, and you need to take me back to my fucking hotel and stop stalking my apartment," Shane snapped.
Dykstra frowned. "You should still talk to him. For closure."
Shane couldn't stop himself from laughing. "For closure? Seriously? That's the best you can come up with?"
"Shane, c'mon. Just hear me out—"
"Like you've been hearing me say ‘leave me the hell alone’ and then stalking me? I am not hearing fucking shit! From any of you!” Shane yelled, leaning forward between the seats. Dykstra flinched. "I told him I didn't want to be involved with this anymore, and now you're here fucking kidnapping me! Why can't you all just leave me alone?"
Suddenly Dykstra yanked the car over through four lanes of traffic, braking so hard on the shoulder of the road that Shane had to brace himself against the seats. The grey Honda Odyssey carrying LaPointe and Holmberg flew by. "Because you're wrong, Shane!" Dykstra yelled right back. He was twisted almost all the way around in the driver's seat. "This is—you guys are both fucking miserable without each other, and you're both being fucking stupid about it!"
"I am not miserable," Shane growled. "You don't fucking know my life—"
"Well Roz is!" Dykstra snapped. That shut Shane up for a second. "You say I don't know your life? Fine. But I do know Roz's, and he's a fucking mess."
"Dealing with his mess is not my job," Shane said robotically. He had to bite his tongue to keep the anymore part of that statement in his mouth, but he managed.
Dykstra threw his hands up. "I'm not saying you gotta fix the man or anything, just come talk to him for two minutes! Yell at him for being an asshole, kick him in the dick, whatever! I just need you to put some life back in him, Shane, because he's seriously starting to freak me out!"
Shane narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
Dykstra fell back into his seat and tilted his head back against the headrest. "He's...honestly, I think that's all I can tell you. He's just a mess."
"You already said that." Shane tried to ignore the twinge of worry in his gut.
"I know, but it's accurate." Dykstra sighed. “I—Listen. Roz is my captain. He’s like a brother to me. I’d do anything for him, and right now that thing is supposed to be bringing you back to him."
Shane's throat clenched at how easily Dykstra was talking about his literal kidnapping.
"I like you, Shane, a lot more than I like most people. And I like you and Roz together. We all do.” Dykstra took a breath as he turned to face Shane again. “But if you're sure that you absolutely, 100%, never ever want to see Roz again, then I'll help you. I’ll turn the car around right now and take you to a new hotel, or an airport, or anywhere else you wanna go. But if we do this, you can’t walk it back. You can’t change your mind and call him, can't contact any of the Centaurs, nothing. This has to be the last time any of us ever see each other again, because it’ll fucking kill Roz if it isn’t.”
Shane retreated from where he was still leaning on the center console and pressed his forehead against the back of Dykstra's seat.
“He loves you, Shane," Dykstra said. His voice was a little gentler this time despite the fact that he was actively trying to rip Shane's heart straight out of his ribs. "I’m not saying that to try and guilt trip you or anything, it’s just the truth. You hanging out on the periphery of his life will fucking ruin him, and I won’t let that happen. Not to Roz, not to the Centaurs, not even to you. Do you understand?”
Shane sank deeper into the rough fabric. He could feel Evan's eyes on him, silently watching as Shane considered his options. Sure, he was pissed. Fucking livid, actually. But the thought of walking away for good, of never, ever seeing Ilya again, was unbearable. It hurt like his guts were spilling out of his stomach and onto the floor of the car. "I left for a fucking reason," Shane insisted weakly. His voice was shaking. Fuck.
"Yeah, well. You were together for a reason, too," Dykstra mumbled. "Guess you gotta pick which one's better."
Fuck. Fuck. If Shane was being completely honest with himself, it wasn’t much of a choice at all. And it was fucking infuriating. “Just drive,” he said quietly, using every fiber of self control in his body to keep his voice from cracking.
Dykstra was silent for a moment, waiting for him to elaborate. “To..?”
He squeezed his eyes closed. “You know where to. Just go.”
Shane didn’t look up as Dykstra wordlessly pulled them back into the flow of traffic, weaving easily between lanes as they picked up speed and hurtled towards the edge of the city. He was sure LaPointe and Holmberg were somewhere nearby, probably panicking about losing Dykstra's trail or trying desperately to keep up with his maniacal driving style.
Eventually Shane had pulled himself together well enough to lean back and rebuckle his seatbelt like a normal human person. "I'm still pissed about the kidnapping thing," he informed Dykstra.
"Yeah, that's fair." Dykstra nodded as they turned off the highway and onto a two-lane road surrounded by dense trees on either side, completely disregarding how the speed limit dropped by 20 kilometers an hour. Not like he was following it to begin with. "Sorry about that, by the way."
Shane wasn't sure he was sorry about the parts that Shane was actually the most upset about, but he would take what he could get. The Centaurs had surprisingly strong moral compasses compared to most other criminal enterprises Shane had come across, but they were still criminals. “I can’t believe you made an entire fake Uber account for this shit,” he grumbled.
Dykstra cocked his head. “Oh. That would’ve been a good idea. Huh.”
Well that set off about a million different alarm bells in Shane’s head. “Wait, what do you mean would’ve been? Is that not what you did?”
He winced. “Uh, no. Not exactly.”
Suddenly there was a solid thunk from the trunk directly behind where Shane was sitting. Then some muffled groans.
On god, Shane was going to kill every single Centaur who had any part in this godawful plan. “Dykstra. Please tell me you didn't do what I think you did."
"That depends entirely on what exactly you think that is."
"You kidnapped a fucking Uber driver? Are you fucking kidding me?!”
“He’s totally fine!” Dykstra said defensively. “I barely even knocked him out!”
“You mean 'he’s fine,' except for the part where you kidnapped him and stole his fucking car?”
“C’mon, I’m gonna put him right back where I found him,” Dykstra protested. “And I kept the app running, so he’s still going to get paid for taking your ride. I’m barely even inconveniencing him.”
“Evan,” Shane said through grit teeth.
Dykstra rolled his eyes. “Plus I’m gonna tip him, like, $2,000. So he’s really coming out on top, if you think about it. He probably won’t even call the cops.”
The thumping and muffled noises turned distinctly more panicked as Shane’s actual Uber driver realized he was stuffed in the trunk of his own car.
“Okay, maybe $3,000,” Dykstra amended. “And he’s barely even concussed! That should count for something.”
Shane yet again felt the distinct urge to grab the wheel and crash the car with both of them still inside. “This is at least six kinds of illegal, do you realize that? And three of those are felonies.”
Dykstra shrugged. “Whatever. I’ve done worse.”
Shane groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. Unfortunately, he didn’t doubt that for a second. “How did this become my life? I’m a fucking accountant.”
“Yeah, and a really damn good one,” Dykstra added cheerfully. “That’s why you work for us and not some lame-ass firm somewhere.”
“That is not helpful,” Shane deadpanned. “Please stop talking, you fucking criminal.”
“Nah, you like us,” Dykstra teased.
“Unfortunately, I do. Worst mistake of my fucking life,” Shane grumbled, turning to look out the window and trying to ignore the sounds of the poor man stuffed in the trunk. They were well out of the city by now, turning into a network of dirt backroads twisting through the woods. It was a convoluted maze of turns on purpose, meant to confuse and disorient anyone who wasn't already familiar with the route, but Dykstra barely slowed down at all. The pit in Shane’s guts tightened uncomfortably, growing hotter and hotter with every mile. He could tell they were getting close based on the way the stupid woods had gradually thickened enough to form a natural tunnel over the road.
Fuck, he hadn't seen Ilya in a month. What was he going to say? Should he apologize for the fight? God, what was Ilya planning to say to him? There had to be something considering that he'd sent fucking kidnappers to literally drag Shane into a conversation. It better be a good fucking apology too, considering that he'd sent fucking kidnappers. Honestly, it was a mistake to let Ilya of all people have that kind of power. He could be such a fucking drama queen when he wanted to.
Before Shane could fully decide whether he was going to strangle Ilya in the angry way or the sexy way first (and trust that he absolutely would be getting to both), the dense tree cover abruptly ended and Rozanov's stupid house was towering over them.
Well, house was maybe not the right word to describe the massive mansion that served as the Centaurs' home base. Compound was probably more accurate, considering it held the majority of the gang’s members, most of their vehicles, and an absolute shit ton of guns.
It was also far nicer than a criminal hideout really had any right to be. Sometimes when Shane came here he let himself take a moment to appreciate the graceful architecture and wide windows, the crawling ivy making its way up the stucco walls, the Spanish tiling covering the roof. Sometimes he had a laugh at the irony of such a pretty building hiding such an ugly business.
Today, though, Shane just wanted to tear the place apart brick by fucking brick and light the foundation on fire.
A massive cast iron gate begun to crawl open as they approached, moving slow enough that Dykstra had to hit the brakes a little bit. Shane was almost amused at his obvious irritation at having timed the entrance wrong, but then they were inside the courtyard with the gate swinging closed behind them like a fucking guillotine and rage flooded into every single cell of Shane’s body.
Ah. So angry strangling was up first, then.
Ilya wanted to see him so fucking bad? Fine. Great, even. Shane could work with that.
Dykstra pulled smoothly into the looped driveway in front of the building’s grand entrance, coming to a stop just behind LaPointe and Holmberg's mini van at the base of the stupid white stupid marble staircase. The thumping and muffled screaming noises in the trunk got louder and more frantic, and oh yeah, Shane had almost forgotten about that guy. He probably thought he was going to get dragged out of the car and murdered in the woods or something. Shane should probably be responsible and do something about that before he got busy with murdering his ex-boyfriend and a good five or six of his closest friends.
The child lock finally released as the car's engine turned off, and Shane was out of the backseat in an instant. Dykstra tried to follow, but Shane slammed the driver’s door shut and planted one hand firmly against the metal frame just above the window with enough force to stop Dykstra from opening it again. He glared until the other man eventually got the hint and reluctantly rolled down the window.
“You ever kidnap me again, and I will fucking end you before we hit the highway,” Shane growled. “Get it?”
“Got it,” Dykstra replied nervously. Good.
A particularly loud thunk echoed from the trunk. Shane tilted his head towards their hostage. “And make it $5,000 for him.”
Dykstra nodded quickly. “Done.”
Shane released his hold on the door and turned to stomp up the unnecessarily fancy staircase. Either Rozanov was itching for an audience or Dykstra had called ahead, because a good number of Centaurs were already clustered around the giant double doors to meet Shane’s approach. LaPointe and Holmberg were both there and looking particularly nervous. Shane would deal with them later.
Ilya, on the other hand, was startlingly absent. That fucking coward.
Boodram hesitantly stepped forward. “Hollzy—”
“Fuck you,” Shane snapped, ripping his eyes off the closed doors of the compound to look at Ilya's second-in-command. “Is he in there?”
Boodram winced under Shane’s glare despite having a good 4 inches of height over him. He glanced over Shane’s shoulder towards where Dykstra was coming up the stairs. “I…yeah. He is,” he finally answered. Someone coughed awkwardly. Shane didn't care enough to guess who it was.
“Fantastic. Move.” He shouldered past Bood and shoved both doors open, storming into the house with the mass of nervous Centaurs trailing in his wake. The entryway was wide and familiar and empty of dramatic, pissy Russians, and Shane decided right then and there that this would be the day he finally committed murder with with his bare hands. How dare Ilya fuck with him like this! First the kidnapping, now trying to make Shane hunt him down in the house he had been unwillingly brought to? Hell no. Absolutely the fuck not.
“Rozanov!” Shane yelled at the top of his lungs. His voice crashed through the unusually silent house like a tidal wave. “Get out here, you fucking asshole!” Five whole seconds passed without Rozanov revealing himself in the kind of dramatic entrance Shane knew he loved, and his blood was fucking boiling. Fine. That was fine! Shane would find him his goddamn self. He stomped deeper into the house. "If you're hiding from me right now, Ilya Rozanov, I swear to god it'll be the last thing you ever do!"
Shane made it about seven steps up the grand staircase before he was stopped dead in his tracks by a hand around his lower arm. “Hollander, wait up,” Bood said breathlessly.
The rest of the group stood frozen and crowded by the door. Several of them were staring with undisguised horror at where Bood was holding onto Shane. Well at least some of them still had an inkling of survival instinct.
Shane carefully shifted his gaze to the hand on his arm, then up to Boodram’s face. Under normal circumstances, Rozanov would literally try to kill anyone who dared to grab Shane like that. “Let go of me, Boodram. Right fucking now,” he ordered.
Bood released a controlled exhale, but kept his grip. “Hollzy,” he tried again, slightly softer this time. “Just listen to me for a second.”
Oh yeah, because if there was one thing in the world Shane was in the mood for right now it was fucking listening. His jaw clenched so hard it was almost painful. “I swear to God, Zane. If you don’t let go this fucking second—”
“Shane?” A quiet voice cut through the argument.
Fucking finally. Shane practically snarled as he ripped his arm away from Bood, primed and ready to tear into Ilya Rozanov with the fury of a thousand suns and one exceptionally pissed-off Canadian.
Then his eyes found Ilya. And he froze.
Rozanov was slumped against the arched doorway separating the entryway and the lounge. His golden curls were a complete mess of frizz on the left and flattened nearly to his skull on the right. His eyes were puffy red and his lips looked painfully dry and chapped, almost to the point of cracking. Ratty grey sweatpants were rolled up to different heights on each of his calves, and a severely wrinkled and worn blue crewneck with a stretched out collar covered his torso. And there was something huge and fluffy draped around his shoulders—wait, was that Shane’s old bathrobe Ilya was wrapped in? Where had he even found that?
The whole scene was so out of character that it nearly knocked the breath out of Shane’s lungs. Ilya looked pathetic. Like a golden retriever that had been dumped on the side of the road and drenched in rain, then kicked in the ribs for good measure. The rage in Shane’s body fizzed and condensed into something like a dull knife being twisted into his chest. Fuck. This wasn't…he hadn’t been expecting this.
Fuck. Dykstra had been right. Ilya was a mess.
“Sha—Hollander. You are…are you really here?” Ilya asked uncertainly. They were staring right at each other, less than twenty meters apart, but his voice was small and croaky and unsure. Like he couldn’t actually let himself believe what he was seeing was real.
Shane tore his gaze away from Ilya to look over the other Centaurs. Bood had taken a few steps back down the staircase and was studying Ilya intently, but he didn’t seem surprised by the state he was in. Dykstra was half-hidden behind Hayes’ shoulder, eyes flickering nervously over Shane and obviously trying to gage his reaction. The younger members were split between staring at Shane and staring at Ilya, but all of them looked like their hearts were being literally crushed in real time. Barrett was absolutely not looking at anybody. Hayes wouldn’t stop looking at absolutely everybody.
Ilya just stared hopelessly at Shane, practically oozing pain and hope and sad acceptance out of every pore on his face.
‘I like you two together,’ Dykstra had said. ‘We all do.’
The pieces finally slotted into place and Shane realized exactly what was going on. Ilya'd clearly had no idea that Shane was coming, but several of the older Centaurs were radiating guilt. God, these stupid, loyal, stubborn idiots.
Shane groaned, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids. “I’m going to fucking kill every single one of you assholes for this,” he promised. Fuming anger still licked under his skin, but it wasn’t an all-consuming rage anymore. This whole situation was a mess, but it was a mess he could fix.
“Alright. Here’s what’s going to happen: you—” Shane pointed to Chouinard, who jerked in surprise and also probably a very healthy dose of fear. “—are going to put that Uber driver right back where he fucking belongs. With a heartfelt apology and a shit ton of cash in his pockets. Go.”
Chouinard nodded quickly, immediately ducking out the door to follow the order. Holmberg, LaPointe, and Young slipped after him. Whatever, that was fine. They needed to return that fucking Honda while they were at it.
“You.” Shane pointed at Ilya, who’d already started drifting away from the lounge like he was unconsciously being pulled towards Shane. It made something heavy settle in Shane’s bones. “Upstairs. With me. Right now.”
Ilya just stared, wide-eyed and obviously still unsure of what was going on. He took one very slow, very shaky step forward.
“I said now, Ilya,” Shane snapped.
Ilya blinked, clearing some of the haze from his expression. He hurried across the entryway without breaking eye contact for a single second. He tripped slightly on the first step, but didn’t slow until he was just below Shane, looking up at him with giant, watery blue eyes. Shane kept staring as Ilya passed by slowly, finally coming to a stop two stairs above him. Perfect.
With Ilya securely behind him, Shane finally turned a withering glare on the rest of the Centaurs. Bood had retreated to join them near the door at some point during Shane’s mini crisis. That was probably the smartest thing he'd done all week if he was even half as involved with the kidnapping plot as Shane suspected he was. “As for the rest of you, know that I will be finding out each and every single person who was in on this stupid ass plan, and you will regret it.”
Bood took a sharp breath. Barrett was so pale that Shane almost wondered if he was going to pass out after this. Several people shifted uncomfortably or completely froze.
Shane took several seconds to glare specifically at Evan, who was still hiding behind Hayes. “And I am going to hunt you for fucking sport, Dykstra.”
Dykstra swallowed loud enough that Shane could hear it halfway across the room.
Shane turned his back on the group, satisfied that his threats had sunk in appropriately. The Centaurs wanted him back so bad? Fine. They'd get exactly what they asked for. Shane would happily put each and every single thing in this place back just the way it was supposed to be, starting with the man following close at his heels.