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“You are his daughter, Elena. He wants you safe.”
That makes her snort. “My father has never cared for a moment that I’m safe. Nor my sister. Fuck, Letta is getting beaten daily by her prick of a husband. My father knows it and does nothing. I’m the one who has to intervene.”
Her words make me still. How, exactly, is she getting between her sister and a man who is violent?
“Your sister is married to the son of Frank Maloney, the Mayor of London.” I don’t need the confirmation—I know everything about her family—but I don’t think asking if she’s endangering herself for her sister straight away is a good idea.
She scoffs. “I wouldn’t call it a marriage. The man is a fucking dick.”
“And you intervene how?” I ask the question carefully.
Her eyes meet mine. “I showed that bastard what happens if he doesn’t keep his fists to himself. He does it again, and it won’t be his face I cut up. It’ll be his balls.”
Her fire excites me even as it concerns me. She can’t be putting herself between danger and a grown man.
“You’re not to do that again,” I tell her.
That delicate brow climbs up her forehead. “Excuse me?”
“You do not put yourself in harm’s way, Elena.”
“She’s my sister, and we’ve been married just five fucking minutes, so you don’t get to tell me if I’m allowed to defend her or not. I won’t leave her to that animal.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t defend her. You only have to say the word and I will pay that fucker a visit myself.”
“You… you want to attack my dickhead brother-in-law so I don’t have to?”
“You are a Fraser now.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, her expression unreadable, but she’s shaking a little. I slip my jacket off and hand it to her. “I don’t need it.”
“Take it,” I order.
“I don’t want to ruin it.”
“I have a closet full of them and it’s probably already bloodied.”
She mutters under her breath about me being a bossy bastard, but she does as I ask, slipping her arms into the sleeves.
The sound of a vehicle approaching has my head snapping around. It’s a black four-by-four, the type my men drive, but that doesn’t mean shit. I’ve learnt not to trust things at face value. I shield Elena with my body until the window winds down and I recognise the passenger.
“Mr Fraser,” Duncan says before climbing out and opening the back door for us.
I help Elena to her feet, not liking the way she teeters. That head wound of hers needs looking at. My own brain feels a little scrambled, aching around the site where I hit the side window during the collision, but I don’t feel dizzy. From the way Elena is wobbling, she is.
I help her into the car and get in behind her once she’s seated. She surprises me by leaning her head against my shoulder.
“I’m tired,” she says around a yawn.
“A few minutes and we’ll be home.”
As the car starts to move, I pull my phone out and text my cousin, Gemma. She will give me attitude about messaging her, but Elena’s comfort outstrips hers. I need to know if my wife needs to go to the hospital, or if she simply needs rest.
I expect the snarky response and I get it.
Findanother doctor to be your bitch.
I gritmy teeth and reply back, telling her to get her arse to the house or I’ll come looking for her. I leave the threat hanging, but she reads it as intended and a response comes back saying she’ll be there within the hour.
