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I lower my gun and scoff. “And why the fuck would I do that?”
The man shoots the men in the back a look, and one of them cocks the gun pointed at Isabella. She lets out a low whimper, and it pierces through my heart. I straighten my back, shove my free hand into my pocket, and press my lips together.
“We know your little whore is the key. If you don’t give us what we want, we’re not going to be the only ones coming after her. I believe you know the Philips family, too.”
“I’m going to enjoy making you pay,” I tell him, pausing to offer him a grim smile. “Every last one of you is going to pay.”
The bald man stares at me for a long time.
Silence stretches between us.
Then Isabella is knocked to her knees, and the gun is pressed to the back of her head. She refuses to lower her head until her attacker hits her on the back of the head, and I see red. Tristan and Paul shoot me quick looks, but I don’t hold their gazes.
I’m going to personally hunt down every last one of them.
Isabella’s attacker hits her again, this time across the side of her face. A bruise is already forming there, so I dig my nails into my palms. “You’re wasting your time.”
Isabella gives me a wounded look. “Carter, please. Don’t tell them anything.”
She is slapped again, hard enough to have her crumble into a heap on the floor. I stop breathing when she doesn’t get back up right away. Then she sits up, blood and spittle forming on the side of her mouth, and gives the man behind her a withering look. When she draws her head back and spits at his feet, he advances on her and kicks her in the stomach.
Isabella doubles over and lets out a low hiss of pain. “He’s not going to tell you anything. Go to hell.”
The bald-headed man steps forward. “I can see why you like her. She’s feisty. Maybe we’ll take her with us when we leave.”
I have the gun pointed at his head before I know what I’m doing. “Back the fuck off.”
The man doesn’t bat an eye as he signals to the other men. Isabella is tossed around like some sort of rag doll, with the men taking turns kicking and hitting her. It takes everything in me not to launch myself at them, taking as many of the bastards down as I can. It’s the look in Isabella’s eyes that stops me. That and the fact that I have several guns pointed at me.
I’d be a pin cushion before I got close enough to make any difference.
Everyone in the room knows it.
One of the men moves to rip Isabella’s dress, and the door flies open, Blackthorne men steadily pouring through them. I disarm the men closest to me and throw myself at their leader. We land on the floor with a thud, and fists fly as we grapple for control. Once we roll to a stop, he kicks me away and staggers off. I can only see red until Tristan places a hand on my arm and yells into my ear.
The room sharpens into focus, and I see Paul on the floor with Isabella, trying to rouse her. I march over to them, scoop her into my arms, and let her head fall against my chest. She is covered in blood, and her breathing is steady but uneven. Rage and fear claw their way through me as we get into the backseat of the SUV, and Ernesto speeds through the streets of the city.
A gurney is waiting for us outside the double doors of the emergency room. I’m out of the car before Ernesto brings it to a complete halt, and the tires screech against the asphalt. I set Isabella down, but her hand is still in mine until we push through the doors. The smell of disinfectant hits me first, followed closely by the sound of beeping monitors.
Tristan materializes next to me. “What do you need us to do?”
“Give those guys a taste of their own medicine,” I hiss under my breath. “I want the Philipses and the Natoris to know exactly who they’re dealing with. Take fucking Donahue with you.”
Because I’m not leaving Bella’s side for a second.
And it’s time our alliance with Rich fucking Donahue came in handy.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Isabella
“Carter, what’s happening?” I’m flipped onto my side, and I feel a breeze on my behind. Then I hear the sound of fabric being ripped, and goosebumps break out across my flesh. I’m pushed onto my back, but I can’t make out much, save for the vague outline of doctors and nurses in scrubs coming in and out of my field of vision.
I try to sit up straight, but someone pushes me back.
So I stare at the ceiling and try to push back against the nausea threatening to overtake me. I press my lips together, take a deep, shuddering breath, and squeeze my eyes shut. Reluctantly, I pry my eyes open when I hear something being wheeled in and feel a pair of gloves pinching my skin together. When the needle touches my skin, my eyes fly open, and I scramble up.
The cold syringe pierces my skin, and I hiss. “I don’t want that.”
