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A mix of desire and wrath flashes in her eyes as she yanks on her wrist, trying to pull away and ignore the intended double entendre in my words. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Oh, kitten, do I really need to remind you that I don’t require your cooperation? If I want you to come, you will.” I raise my eyebrows, loving the light blush that stains her pretty cheeks, wishing I could enjoy it more—but the fucker that assaulted her still needs to be disposed of.
“What are you gonna do, Kieran? What could you possibly do that could be worse than what almost happened tonight?”
Confusion and sorrow take hold as her face crumples with her confession, and I feel torn as I watch her succumb to the fear saturating the air around her. “Oh, my God. He—he almost—” she breaks off on a hiccup, folding her arms around her torso and withering onto the floor like a wilting flower; beautifully spent. Broken.
Dead.
“Get up,” I snap, nudging her with the toe of my shoe. I don’t want Boyd or Finn to see her like this. Don’t want them to know there’s a desolate little soul inside her, begging for someone to relieve it of its lonely, desperate ache.
An ache for love. Life.
Meaning.
Don’t want them to know I see it because it’s the same thing I feel inside myself.
A sob wracks through her body, shaking her like a catastrophic earthquake—unstoppable in even its smallest form. More cries fall from her lips, raspy and raw, as if they’re being torn right from her chest, and she curls into a ball at my feet, struggling to catch her breath.
Her face is taut as she bawls, tears shining in the dim light above us, and it makes my throat clench and my stomach flip. They quickly transform into stuttered, wet breaths, and with every passing second, she seems to gulp in more air more frequently, until she’s gasping and clawing at her neck.
I shift on my feet, wondering where the fuck my men are, watching her convulse beside a man I’ve just shot point-blank. A man who was about torapeher. Who didn’t care about anything except that she’s a hot piece of ass he wanted to sample for himself.
My hands curl into fists at my sides as I imagine how the rest of that scenario would’ve gone, the realization that a Montalto wouldn’t dare touch the sister-in-law of their boss without her express permission. And maybe not even then.
The odds of her involvement with any of this, especially considering the protective nature I know Elia exudes over his family, dwindle, and with it, so does my resolve. Boyd and Finn appear at the top of the stairs at the same time I crouch down and scoop her tiny body into my arms. Two guards trail them, pausing at the beginning of the hall and turning to keep watch.
Jerking my head toward the bloody, almost unrecognizable heap, I set my back up against the wall, facing away from the crime scene, settling Juliet in my lap as she soaks my dress shirt with her tears. Her body shakes, and she mumbles something completely incoherent, her grip on reality gone as she falls into what reminds me of the panic attacks Murphy used to have.
Smoothing my hand down over her hair and pressing her face into my chest, I see the questioning look Boyd gives me. I shake my head, not wanting to discuss anything except the man at our feet. He leaves for a moment and returns with a hand towel, remaining silent as I use it to clean as much of her skin as possible.
I don’t even bother with mine, unwilling to disturb her further.
Finn scrubs a hand over his blond man bun, letting out a string of Irish curses as he inspects the body. The shaded clover on his cheekbone dances as he grits his teeth. “Shawn O’Connor. One of my men.” He glances up, clenching his jaw. “What the fuck is going on, Ivers?”
“He had his hands on her.” I speak over Juliet’s head and her wails; she fists my shirt in her hands, like she can’t get close enough. And despite the anxiety weighing down my bones and the anger simmering just beneath the surface of my skin, despite her trauma and how it’s manifesting through her right now, I want to help her get closer. Want to keep her tucked away from the rest of the world, safe in my arms.
Threading my fingers through her hair, I massage her scalp, loving how it doesn’t cause her to flinch away. It could be that she’s not got a single foot in reality at the moment, but whatever it is, I take it as a small victory. Her body’s immediate acquiesce to mine—proof that, defiance be damned, she already knows who owns her.
“I feel like that’s your answer for everything,” Boyd says, watching me with a curious expression. His gaze drops to the girl in my arms and softens, before he turns and snaps on a pair of rubber gloves. One of the guards comes over with a zippered black bag, dropping it on the floor beside the corpse, and then returns to his post.
Finn frowns, still waiting for an answer.
“She said they mentioned my name, and my father’s name. I don’t know anything else, but I can’t believe someone working foryou—or Montalto, for that matter—would take someone in such a public place. Most perverts wait for complete solitude; they won’t take their chances with a crowd just at the bottom of the stairs.”
Juliet’s sobs begin to subside as some tension drains from her body; I feel her slump into me more, the effects of adrenaline and alcohol wearing off.
“So, what? These guys were waiting for you, and she wandered into an unlucky situation?”
“Seems like it.”
Pinching the bridge of his disfigured nose—because the leader of the Irish mafia can’t be without a few physical imperfections—Finn exhales a harsh breath. “Fuck. Okay. I’ll get my men on it.” I cock an eyebrow and he rolls his eyes. “One of mygoodmen. Now, take the girl and get the hell out.”
Ignoring Boyd’s watchful gaze as I climb to my feet, I adjust my hold on Juliet so her knees dangle over the crook of my elbow, propping her neck on the opposite indent. We leave out the back door, where she disappeared with the firefighter weeks ago, and I walk out onto the street to where my father’s driver, Francis, is parked.
Since my father’s been bedridden in the aftermath of his injury, Francis doesn’t have anything else to do, so I’ve been letting him drive me around. Although, part of me suspects it’s my father’s way of keeping an eye on me, knowing this vehicle is probably bugged by now.
She leans into me, drifting in and out of sleep, somehow relaxed in my arms. I cradle her in the back seat of the town car, her staggered breaths wrecking my insides. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry they hurt you,” I whisper into her hair, aware she probably can’t even hear me. “It won’t happen again.”
