Page 118 of Direct Action

I rested my head against the seat and closed my eyes.

Those visions were no better. The ones that Beck had planted when he’d called in to report Poppy had been severely whipped and her entire back was torn to shit and he was calling the mission. Pete had an hour to get backup on site and take the mansion or he was going on a murdering spree.

Gavin was escorting me home.

Pete, Jack, Aiden, Cat, Calli, Mason, and Fallon had stayed behind, with backup en route—that backup being the feds. Shep had worked his magic and had cleaners headed to the bloodbath I’d left behind.

Seven more hash marks on my soul.

Seven hash marks that I gladly took credit for.

Before the bodies were disposed of, pictures would be taken so we could identify the men. If one of them wasn’t this mysterious Dex, I was going hunting. Though Aiden said that Chloe had told him six men had inspected her, and Dex made seven. And indeed I’d left seven corpses behind.

I felt Chloe’s body jerk before a horrendous shriek. “No!”

“You’re safe, baby.”

Chloe jerked again. Her eyes opened, and the relief I felt would’ve taken me to my knees had I not been sitting down. Fear shone from the depth of her soul, but bright, not dead and dull.

Thank fuck.

“Ryan!”

Before I could stop her, she scrabbled in my lap, turning her body so she could reach up and grab my face.

“I’m sorry! So sorry. I did this. I’m so—”

“Shh, baby. Don’t apologize.”

Other than her neck I didn’t know if she was injured. Aiden had told me he’d done a quick sweep and didn’t see any visible injury, but for obvious reasons he hadn’t looked that closely, just a cursory search before he’d cut her down. And I hadn’t looked her over since she’d been passed out, other than checking her legs that were still bare. My woman had been violated enough, no way in fuck was I lifting the shirt until she was conscious and coherent.

Her grip on my face tightened, causing a good amount of pain before she shrieked again. “You told me. I made you—”

I reached up, gently cuffed her bruised wrists, and rested my forehead on hers. “Please stop, baby. Nothing that happened is your fault. It’s not Poppy’s, it’s not Beck’s, it’s not mine. We’re not taking that on. We’re laying the blame where it belongs, and that’s with those sick-ass motherfuckers.”

“But—”

“No buts, Chloe. Listen to me, please. We’re not taking that on. We’re going home and moving the fuck on.”

“We’re going home?” she whispered.

“About an hour from landing.”

She jerked again, and I really wished she would stop that shit until I had a chance to look her over or at least ask her if she was hurt.

Her gaze darted around. “We’re on a plane. How long was I out?”

“Almost two hours.”

“Two . . . hours.”

The longest two hours of my life—that being after the longest hour and forty-five minutes she’d been gone from the mansion.

“Your mind needed rest, so it took it.”

She nodded and belatedly took in my shirt.

I knew what she saw. Blood, and no small amount.