Her eyebrows rise, and then she slowly drops the phone into her purse. Good.
Then I shift my focus back to the gun pointed at me. “Put that away.”
Sylveria Rendale looks far too comfortable holding it, no hesitation in her grip. She was probably born with a pearl-handled weapon in her hand. “I don’t think so.”
Her voice scrapes along my shoulder blades and oddly cuts between my toes like somebody trying to sharpen aknife there. It fucking hurts. I shrug once, remaining calm because I’ve already decided how this ends. “All your men are down. You shoot me, you die. It’s truly pretty simple.”
She frowns, but she’s calculating, not panicking. “Are they dead?”
“No. You left mine alive at Ella’s little safe house. I returned the favor.”
“Oh.” She keeps her composure. I’ll give her that. Impressive, considering I’m one wrong twitch from putting her on the floor. Without a word, she slips the Smith & Wesson back into that absurd designer handbag like it’s part of a brunch outfit. Elegant, polished, venomous. “Well,” she says, schooling her features, “I saw no reason to kill your man. I believe he was trying to help her. I am worried about my stepdaughter, as you know.”
Bullshit.
I truly don’t have time for this. “I know you put a hit out on her. That failed. What I don’t understand is why she’s still breathing right now.”
Stacia gasps, and Corinda cocks her head. Yeah, they’re not in their mother’s world.
Ella nods from next to the bed, sharp and emphatic. “Exactly. I’d like to know the same thing.”
Sylveria lifts one toned shoulder, all casual elegance and fake concern. “As I said, she’s my stepdaughter. It’s my duty to protect her.”
I shift my weight, noting how my shoulder blades feel better. Why? Even so, blood is drying on my jaw, and my patience is shot. The room smells like antiseptic and whatever designer crap Sylveria wears. “My man reported there was a fight in the house.” I turn my full attention to Ella, my voice flat. “Who hurt you?”
She looks too pale in that thin little gown, her skin almost translucent under the soft light. I don’t like seeing her this way. So fucking defenseless. I need to remember how much danger she actually poses. But every protective instinct I’ve got is wide awake and clawing through my ribs, and I really hate that she does this to me.
She lifts both hands, helpless. “I have no idea. If it wasn’t your guys, and it wasn’t Sylveria’s, I’m truly not sure.” She glances down and to the side on the word “sure.” She’s lying. Or not lying, exactly—just not saying everything. She has an idea, but she isn’t certain.
“Who have you hacked lately?” I ask bluntly.
She pulls back like I slapped her.
I raise a hand. “Don’t.” I’m not in the mood. My jaw still aches from the third man of Sylveria’s that I dropped in the hospital. The bastard had a decent right hook. He’s unconscious now, which mollifies me slightly.
“I’m not lying.” Ella strides away from the bed. Her movements are stiff but determined. “Where are my clothes?” She hovers there for a second. Small. Still half dressed in hospital linen, bruised and tired. But not broken.
“I told the doctor to bring you scrubs so I could take you home,” Sylveria says, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve.
I straighten. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”
“I say no.” Ella frowns, crossing her arms like she thinks that settles it. She looks adorable and tousled. “I’m not going with either of you.”
She’s wrong, but I’m not about to argue with her. Her feet catch my attention again. That bubblegum-pink polish. My eyes keep drifting down to her toenails, and Ihate that I keep noticing. I’ve never been a foot guy. Ella Rendale could change that. The thought is uninvited and irritating.
I straighten my shoulders, forcing my focus back where it belongs. “Ella, we’re leaving. Now. We don’t have time to wait for clothing.” I have no doubt Sylveria has more men coming. I brought three of my own with me, but I’d rather not end up in a shootout at this overpriced, glorified hospital.
Ella’s small chin firms. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“All right.” I stride forward, done playing nice, and I’m gratified when she instinctively takes a step back.
Smart girl.
I grab the white blanket off the hospital bed—that’s some luxury cashmere thing that probably costs more than most people’s rent—and toss it around her shoulders, pulling the ends shut at the front.
“What are you doing?” she snaps.
Even that harsh sound feels like a balm to my skin. This is so not good. “Making a burrito.” I wrap it snugly around her. The moment flickers with something almost warm until she blinks, her gaze landing on my mouth.
