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Rarely did he lose control. He’d been stupid, that was all. Bewitched by a vision of the future that he desperately wanted. Anne had seemed so perfect, the chemistry between them electric.
He rebelled against the idea that she’d betrayed him, despite the evidence to the contrary. He had to talk to her. He trusted Alan about as far as he could throw him. If he was involved, nothing good could come of it.
Blane changed into jeans and pulled on a t-shirt, then grabbed his keys. He was too angry to wait until tomorrow. He had to talk to her tonight and find out the truth.
Twenty minutes later, he was parked outside of her building. He slid inside as someone was coming out. They gave him the side-eye but didn’t say anything. Taking the stairs two at a time, he strode down the hallway. Then he saw her door, standing ajar.
Alarm sung through him. He pulled out his gun—never leave home without it—and carefully approached the apartment. Taking a quick peek, he saw everything at once in the clarity of a second. Busted furniture, empty except for Anne, curled on the floor.
He took a moment to clear the apartment before rushing to Anne. He didn’t want someone sneaking up on him. Blane crouched next to her. She was breathing.
“Anne. What happened?” He touched her shoulder and she whimpered, drawing even tighter into herself. “It’s me,” he said. “It’s Blane.”
Rage shivered through him. Whoever did this would pay. But she needed him now, so he stuffed his fury away. There would time enough for that later.
Carefully, mindful of her reaction, he slid his hands underneath her and lifted, carrying her into the bedroom. She didn’t respond. She just shook uncontrollably in his arms.
He lay her on the bed, ice coating his veins when he saw that her top had been torn. She clutched at her abdomen. Blane grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her.
“Talk to me,” he said softly. “Who did this?” He brushed her hair back from her face, willing her to look at him, and prayed the very worst hadn’t happened.
Her eyes opened and focused on him. She’d been crying and mascara tracked down her cheeks. Her lip was split and there was dried blood on her mouth and chin.
“Blane…” Her eyes leaked more tears. “It hurts.”
Blane decided explanations could wait. This wasn’t a secure location. He picked her up, blanket and all. In moments, he was loading her into the passenger seat of his car.
“Where…?” she managed to ask.
“I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“No.” Anne struggled to sit up. “Papers. Press. Please. No hospital.”
Blane clenched his jaw in frustration. “You need a doctor.”
“Please, Blane.”
Fuck.
He made a U-turn in the middle of the deserted street and pointed the car in the direction of his house. Speed limits were mere suggestions as he floored it, taking out his frustration and anger with speed. He needed to get her somewhere safe, somewhere he could protect her. She’d been attacked minutes after he’d dropped her off. He hadn’t even walked her to her fucking door. He could’ve prevented this.
Blane parked in the driveway and carried her upstairs to his bedroom. She hadn’t said anything more, though she’d stopped shaking.
At a loss as to what else to do, he wet a washcloth and began to gently clean the blood from her face and the tear tracks. There was already a bruise darkening her cheek.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked softly. “Was someone waiting for you?”
Anne swallowed. Her throat moving heavily with the action. “There were three of them,” she managed, her voice hoarse. “They broke through the door. It was the husband of that woman I told you about. He’s looking for her. He thought I knew where she was.”
Blane’s hands clenched into fists. “Did they…?” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
She shook her head. “They beat me. Terrorized me. But didn’t rape me.”
That was a small consolation, but looking at her now, curled in his bed and as fragile as glass, it did little to make Blane feel better.
“Can I take a bath?” she asked.
Blane jumped to his feet, eager to do something to help her. “Absolutely. I’ll run the water for you.”
