Page 4 of The FBI Agents Who Stole Me

I slam both palms into his chest, but he doesn’t move an inch.

A sharp pinch bites into my neck.

My hand flies up, useless against his weight. I’m too late, because his grip is already locked around the syringe.

His jaw tightens as his thumb presses down on the plunger.

“But it might keep you alive.”

“Julian, what the fuck?” I think I say. I definitely want to say that and so much more. Most of it involves creative threats of bodily harm. What an asshole.

My knees fold. Julian catches me before I hit the pavement and lowers me into the passenger seat beside Jasper’s carrier.

The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is a black SUV turning into my alley and Julian reaching beneath his jacket for his gun.

CHAPTER 2

Julian

5 MONTHS EARLIER

Ettie’s silver-blond hair is a mess against her white sheets. Her eyes flutter beneath her lids, and a soft whimper leaves her lips.

Maybe I should give her something to keep the nightmares quiet. She whines again, and her chest jerks beneath the thin blanket. My heart stutters. I pull her against me and rest my chin on the top of her head.

I am hopelessly in love with Ethal Abigail Leighlan. And the second I tell her that, she’s going to try to run from me. Which I would never allow. I know my girl. She’ll come to terms with us on her own, eventually. I’m nothing if not patient.

My arms tighten around her as another cry slips from her bow-shaped lips.

I have a compound in my bag. A topical sedative that I can rub on her wrists to help her get some rest. If she won’t share her demons so that I can help her slay them, the least I can do is bury them with some narcotics she’ll never know about.

Once her breathing evens out again, I slide carefully from her bed. The sheets cling to her damp skin. It smells like sex and her shampoo. The combined scents are intoxicating enough to make me want to stay here and stare at her while she sleeps.

I force myself to leave her side and shut the door silently behind me.

A groan drifts from the hallway. Someone’s here.

Damn it. Ettie keeps her gun by her bed. Going back for it could give the intruder more time to harm us, so I keep following the sound.

I’m a doctor. My first instinct is always to preserve life, not end it. My thoughts on guns are jaded after the years of violence I’ve witnessed. Years of stitching up the aftermath of senseless violence have left me with complicated feelings. Still, now might be the time I need one the most.

At the end of the hallway, a streak of red slashes across the pale tile floor. I know that red. It’s fresh enough that the metallic tang already reaches my nose, sharp and coppery. It trails from the direction of the kitchen toward the front door.

When I round the couch, a man is slumped against the front door. He’s half propped against the door like he tried to crawl out before his body gave up.

He must have been lost or disoriented and came into Ettie's apartment by mistake.

His head lolls to one side. One eye is sealed shut by bruised flesh, the other a narrow slit lost in mottled purple. His mouth gapes, split open and crusted with drying blood at the corners.

My medical bag sits on the entry table where I left it earlier. I grab it, drop to my knees beside him, and snap on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

“Sir, can you hear me?” My voice stays calm, professional, the way it always does in emergencies. “I’m a doctor. I’m going to help you.”

I ease him onto his back, supporting the back of his neck as his head rolls limply. His skin feels clammy and too cool already. I tap his cheek gently.

“Sir. Open your eyes for me.”

No response.