Page 67 of Ricochet

My body trembled with relief at the sight of him, another round of tears filling my eyes.

With a growl in his chest, he lifted me into his arms, as if I weighed nothing. Through the darkness and chaos inside my head, I heard him whisper, “I’ve got you,” as he carried me across the lawn, toward the mansion.

Those three simple words blanketed the aftershock still quaking through my body, and the world around me stilled. I’ve got you.

Caught in his arms, all I could do was stare in awe at the raw intensity of his features—the tightness of his jaw, the furious pulse of the veins in his neck, the flare of his nostrils.

As he kicked open the door and carried me up the staircase, I felt numb.

He killed those men. For me. So easily, and with such lethal grace, I didn’t know whether to wrap my arms around him or fear him. In either case, Nick had instantly become something more than my kidnapper. He’d become my rescuer, my savior. A dark angel, with blood on his hands and fire in his eyes.

No one had ever fought for me, killed for me. Not even my own father. I’d always taken care of myself, faced my own battles, and part of me wanted to curl up into a ball of shame for being so weak.

Onto shaky legs that I swore would give out any moment, he set me down in his bathroom, still holding me up as he flipped on the faucet for the bath.

I clutched his jacket. “No!” Burying my face into his neck, my body planked, my jaw so stiff and sore from being punched, I could hardly form a word. “N-not the d-d-deep water.”

Without argument, he walked me to the shower instead and flipped on the spray. “Let’s get his fucking blood off you.”

I nodded, tears streaming down my face. His spicy scent penetrated my senses, calming the tension wound so tight in my gut I thought I’d snap. With a lift of my arms, he stripped off my shirt and bra, tossing them to the floor, never once staring at my scarred body. At the yank of my pants that jostled my body, I gripped his shoulder to steady myself. He helped me inside, and while I stood shivering in the spray, he remained outside of the shower and sponged me down with soap, creating a pool of reddened water at my feet.

I stared at him, the blood spattered all over his white shirt and arms as he worked. A killer, who’d shot all three men without hesitation, murdered without remorse, was worried about the blood on me.

His strokes were gentle, careful, as he meticulously wiped every trace of those bastards from my skin while avoiding the new bruises on my legs and the cuts on my back. I should’ve been afraid of him, at the way he’d so deftly wielded a gun, the way he’d proven to be just as dangerous, perhaps more so, than Michael—because Michael would’ve weighed the risks to himself first.

Nick was impulsive, unpredictable, fearless and intimidating all at the same time. As I stood in awe of his kindness, gentleness of his hands caressing my body, for the first time in my life, I felt safe.

Once he’d gotten the blood off of me, he flipped the shower off and toweled me dry, before carrying me to his bed, where he wrapped me in the warm blankets. Shame tore at my heart and I cursed myself for what I’d done, trying to get away. I cringed at the thought that I’d betrayed him. He’d given me freedom, trusted me, and I’d exploited it.

“Stay here for a minute, all right?” He spun away from me, but I clutched his arm, not wanting to admit that I’d been shaken to the core.

“Who … were they?”

“Scrappers, I think. Saw their truck, full of steel and copper.” He leaned forward and stroked my hair, giving me a good look at the way his dilated pupils had begun to soften, to shrink from the wild intensity of before, into a calmer blue. “They won’t hurt you now, okay? Just stay here.” His face pinched to a somber frown. “I have to find Blue.”

CHAPTER 30

Nick

I searched the perimeter of the mansion, all the way to the back, where I finally found Blue, lying in a pool of blood. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. The wounds at his skull oozed blood around his head.

So many bullet wounds. As if he refused to fall.

My knees gave out, and I dropped to his side, lifted his head into my lap. “No, no, no. Blue, c’mon. No, buddy. C’mon.”

His closed eyes didn’t flinch. His head lolled with every shake of him, every attempt to wake him. Nothing.

I bent over him, listened for a heartbeat, confirming what I already suspected.

Silence.

Lifting him higher into my lap, I stroked his face, his expression as peaceful as if he slept in my arms, and an old memory struck.

Jay sits in a strip of sunlight that shone onto the floor through the window. The tiny puppy is stretched across his small legs. “Daddy? Can I name him?”

I reach out to stroke the puppy’s ear. “Whatcha got, little man?”

“Blue.”