Realizing this is a fight for another day, I thrust my purse into Alex’s chest. My swing is barely a fairy tap, but it is enough to send him stumbling backward. I barely catch him before he crashes into the dumpster, which is a mammoth effort considering he is nearly double my weight.
Some of the anger on Alex’s face fades as he regains his footing. He’s not grateful I stopped him and the ground from making kissy faces; he’s pleased I submitted to his demand without complaint.
“Did you drive here?”
I wait for him to straighten his polo shirt before shaking my head. It takes everything I have to leash my anger when a furious growl bubbles in his chest. He gives me a look, one that advises a prolonged talk on personal safety has been placed on my upcoming agenda.Goodie—not!
Through gritted teeth, I say, “There is a taxi stand half a block up. We’ll get a cab back to my apartment, then we can attend to your wound.”
My tone is sharp with worry. I’m not concerned about taking him back to my apartment. It is the blood oozing from his wound causing my fretful response. The more anger thickens his blood, the wider the vibrant red streak down his cheek becomes.
After scanning the alley for the third time, Alex replies, “We can’t stay at your apartment. We’ll go to a hotel.”
I want to argue, but the slur of his words squashes the need. He’s on the verge of collapse, minutes from succumbing to his injuries. The only reason he hasn’t surrendered is because he’s too panicked about protecting me. How do I know this? He has the same horrified expression on his face my dad did when he arrived at Luca’s accident scene eight years ago.
The howl he released when he thought I was in the car was horrific. It shredded my heart just as violently as it did when the medics pulled Luca from the wreckage. He was right. I was sitting in the passenger seat of Luca’s car that night. I just hid from him as I wish I could Alex right now.
Don’t misconstrue my lack of empathy. I don’t want to hide from Alex because I’m an uncaring, selfish bitch. It is the very opposite that has me running scared. Bit by bit the past weekend, the wall around my heart crumbled. I tried in vain to build it back up today, but all the bricks I stacked toppled the instant Alex reappeared.
I’m feeling things I shouldn’t be feeling—things I haven’t felt in years. That’s why I tried to protect my heart, to rebuild the wall he pulverized, because if I don’t do something to salvage the wreckage, this man could destroy me.
I don’t know how.
I don’t know why.
I just know he will.
7
My mouth burns as if I have swallowed acid, and my head is thumping, but the ache that’s been stabbing my chest the past twenty-plus hours has vanished because Regan is sitting beside me—safe and uninjured. In the seconds leading to me passing out, she was the first person to enter my mind, and she never left.
At a time where I should have been concerned about my safety, all I could think about was her. That’s not surprising. I’d rather take a bullet to the skull than see her hurt—especially if I am the man causing her pain. The absolute terror clouding her eyes when she tossed off the blanket covering me matched the fear they held when she stood up on the podium at Luca’s memorial to give her eulogy. I knew she wanted this; I just didn’t realize her desires were as profound as mine.
A hiss parts my lips when the taxi driver takes a corner so sharply my brain collides with my throbbing skull. I honestly don’t know what the perp hit me with. It had to be something significant as I’ve been fading in and out of consciousness the past two hours.
From the quickest flash of silver I saw before I was knocked out cold, I was suspicious of the vacuum cleaner, but the man who assaulted me was waif-thin, his frame feminine. He could barely lift the vacuum, much less strike me over the head with it.
That’s how I know there was a second assailant—that and the fact I heard two voices when I was moved from my office to the alley outside. I don’t know why they needed to move me. There is nothing in my office but paperwork, files, and a whole heap of surveillance images. . .
My inner monologue trails off as a disturbing thought enters my mind.
Fuck.
My wooziness doubles when I drop down low to snag Regan’s purse off the cab floor. I slide open the zipper with force, not the least bit worried about its squeals of protest. Unappreciative of me manhandling her belongings, Regan snatches it out of my grasp. I barely get out half a protest when she thrusts her cellphone into my hand, proving she knows me better than anyone.
After giving her a quick smirk in thanks, I slide my finger across the screen. When it requests a lock code, my eyes drift to Regan.
“Zero, zero, zero. . .” She swallows numerous times in a row at my stern glare before forcing out a final, “Zero.”
The deep gash in my brow stings when I arch it high. She hammered me for not having a passcode, yet she has the most generic one there is.
“It’s better than none,” she grumbles under her breath while I dial a number known by heart.
Uneasy about having this conversation in front of Isaac’s lawyer, I twist my torso to the traffic streaming by the taxi we’re sitting in. Although I trust Regan, I don’t know how deep her loyalty to Isaac runs. I also don’t want to put her in a compromising situation.
Theresa answers my call a mere second before it goes to voicemail.
“Send a crew to HQ. I believe our operation has been compromised.”
