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Katja’s voice returns to the call. Now that I know help is on the way, the burst of adrenaline that saved my life is deserting me. I don’t really hear the words she’s saying, but I let my friend’s voice serve as my lifeline.
Help is on the way. I just need to hold on a bit longer.
Time passes in fits and starts during a crisis. As I collapse back on the floor, getting more and more light-headed, fatigue hits hard. I lose my grip on my phone, letting it drop to the tile. I hate that the stench of cigarettes reminds me of how close my attacker’s dead body is to my own.
I jump at the sharp pounding on my door. My brain knows it’s someone here to help me, but that’s when I realize I’m nearly naked and covered in blood. I try to push to my feet so I can open the door but I’m grateful when I hear the click of the lock just before the door bursts open.
I’m in shock. I’m hallucinating.
“Fuck… What the hell…” my rescuer exclaims as I collapse back to the floor.
He’s on his knees next to me, placing his arm behind my neck, and lifting me up as he cradles my broken body. His concerned face is just inches away, making it impossible for me to be mistaken.
My vision turns to spots, slowly wiping out the handsome face above me. My last thought is that at least I finally got Z in my room.
Chapter Two
Z
Her body is limp in my arms, giving me a few moments to scan the room, assess the situation, and then act. My lifetime of training kicks in, but it never gets easier, especially when a bloody, half-naked woman is involved.
I recognize her, of course. How can I not? She’s one of only a handful of people other than Dex, Katja, and me to live on property. I may not know much about Rowan, but I know enough to understand how much the press would love to get their hands on this juicy story.
I start with a quick check of her pulse as I push down the kernel of protectiveness her vulnerability triggers. I learned long ago that emotion of any kind has no place when it comes to cleaning up a mess. Feelings distract me from staying focused on the minute details that can mean the difference between success and failure.
And lucky for her, I’ve never failed.
I’d been working in my suite when I got the call from Dex. My boss gave me the room number with a few fast and dirty details, but I’m pretty much coming in blind.
Taking advantage of Rowan still being unconscious, I take stock of what I’m dealing with.
The foyer table is turned over, its broken pieces co-mingle on the floor with hundreds of shards of glass, and thousands of specks of blood splatter. All easy enough to clean up.
Then there’s the dead body, face down in a pool of his own blood. Not quite as simple… but just a normal day at the office for me.
But glancing down at the battered woman in my arms, I know Rowan Worthington is a different story. She’s going to be harder to clean. Her mess goes so much deeper than her visible injuries. She killed a man, and her having to deal with that reality… well, that’s a big fucking problem and will take all my skills to navigate.
I shrug my travel pack off my back, careful to place it as far out of the scrub zone as I can while still being able to reach my supplies. I carry the go bag with me on every job, making me prepared for anything I might encounter.
Rowan’s groan of pain pulls my attention back to her.
Still kneeling next to her, I pull her back into my arms as I search her body for wounds. Feeling around her head and neck first, it’s hard to tell how much of this blood is hers and how much belongs to the dead man.
When her eyes pop back open, I recognize the terror she felt while under attack has returned. Her tiny frame is shaking so hard that I know shock is setting in, and I need her to stay calm enough to be able to focus and help me help her.
“It’s going to be okay,” I soothe, holding her securely in my arms as I brush her blood-stained locks from her face.
She clings to me as if she’s drowning in a sea and I’m her only lifeboat. She doesn’t say a single word, but I don’t expect her to until she’s calm enough to tell her mind and body that she’s no longer under attack.
She’s safe. She may not feel that yet, but she will.
I get to work, taking stock of her injuries. She has a large gash on her shoulder, a cut on her hand, and some serious swelling and bruising forming on her face. I reach for my bag and pull out the advanced first aid kit I always carry.
