"Dmitri," I say, not looking away from Jayshaun's purpling face. "Get her."
Dmitri is already moving, knife out, cutting the zip-ties. Viktor sweeps the shadows, weapon raised, making sure no one else waits in the dark. But I only see her.
Riley's head lifts. Her eyes are glazed, dilated, but they find me through the fog. She tries to speak. Her lips form my name, but no sound comes.
Big Jay gurgles beneath my boot.
"You touched her," I sneer. "That was your death sentence."
I put two in his chest. Then one in his head. Then, because I am not finished, I put another round into his corpse.
Silence.
I drop to my knees in front of her. My hands are shaking again, but this time it is fear—pure, ice-cold terror. I cup her face, tilting it toward the light. The bruise. The cut. The drug-glaze in her eyes.
"Riley." My voice breaks. "Baby Girl. Look at me."
She blinks. Focuses with visible effort. "M'kail?"
The slur rips my heart out. But she is alive. She is breathing. My hands move down her body—checking for breaks, bleeding, or damage. I press my palm to her stomach.
"The baby," she chokes out. "Is the—"
"Shh. Don't speak."
But I am already scooping her up, cradling her against my chest. I press my face to her hair—the smell of smoke and sweat. "We need a doctor," Dmitri says.
"Bring the car. Now."
I carry her out of the dark. Into air that ices in my lungs. The Escalade is waiting, engine running, Dmitri at the wheel with a look on his face I have never seen before—something close to pity.
The doctor meets us at the Back Bay safe house within the hour. A woman who knows better than to ask questions. She examines Riley while I stand in the corner, helpless. The doctor checks her pupils, her blood pressure, and the cut at her throat. She listens to Riley's chest. Then she produces a portable Doppler, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, I hear it.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Fast. Furious. Alive.
The baby is fine.
Riley is fine.
The doctor administers something to flush the sedative, packs supplies for observation, and leaves without a word. She doesn't speak to me in this state. But the moment the door closes, and relief passes, rage returns.
It is a different rage now. Not the white-hot violence of the rescue. This is older. Deeper. She left me. That truth keeps finding new places to cut.
She sits on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a blanket. Her eyes are clearer now. Clear enough to know she is in trouble.
I lean against the wall across from her, arms crossed, before I trust myself to speak.
"Why?" I snarl.
She flinches. Her hands twist in the blanket. She says nothing. For once, her smart mouth is silent.
"What the fuck, Riley?" I say quietly. I am beyond shouting. "You ran. From me. Into that."
She stares at her lap. A bruise is darkening her wrist where they grabbed her. I want to kill Jayshaun again.
"Did you want to be with him?" I ask. "With that man?"
