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She looks like hell. Her normally neatly woven hair is disheveled, her blouse and slacks are dirty and ripped. She has no shoes and the soles of her feet are black. She has a black eye and red, raw marks on her wrists.
But she smiles like she’s the happiest person in the world when her eyes meet mine.
“Oh, my god, Rocky!” She hugs me. “I’m so sorry.”
I startle a little. “What? Why are you sorry? You only got wrapped up in this because of me.”
She shakes her head. “No, I should have known there was something wrong with that detective that showed up.”
I hold her face between both of my open palms. “Babe, that is not your fault. None of this is. They took you to get to me. It’s my fault.”
“What happened? This big Russian dude just loaded me into a car and brought me here.”
“I had information he wanted, so I made a deal.” I shrug. The light catches on my ring. Tasha doesn’t miss it.
“What is that?” she asks, grabbing my hand.
“Oh, ah, so we’re getting married.” I point at Sean.
Tasha just blinks, looking between us. Then she holds up her hand to Sean. “Please hold.” She yanks me into the kitchen.
“Engaged? Is this what you want? You barely know this guy. I’ve never seen you in a relationship that lasted longer than three months.” I can see the genuine concern in her eyes.
“Tasha, I can’t explain it. I love him. I just know.”
She searches my eyes for several moments before sighing and wrapping me in a hug.
We walk back to Sean. Declan, Patrick, and Liam have gathered.
Tasha’s face gets serious. She adopts a power stance, almost managing to look like she wasn’t run over by a truck. “Look here, Irish, you take care of her, or I’ll kill you.”
Sean nods somberly. The guys snicker.
“I’ll love her until the day I die, and I’ll die to keep her safe.” He wraps his arms around me.
Tasha nods. “You better.” She turns and gives me another tight hug. “Congratulations, babe.”
“Thank you!” I wave at her general state. “Do you want a shower?”
“Oh, my god, yes.”
I show her to my former bedroom, which has since finished the crime scene cleanup. The gorgeous bathroom is spotless, the cream carpet is back and another undoubtably comfortable bed dominates the room. “I’ll leave you some clothes and a towel on the counter.”
Tasha just nods, looking exhausted.
I return several minutes later with a pair of sweats, a t-shirt, and a thick pair of socks. I also take a play from Sean’s book and leave ibuprofen and bottled water on the counter.
Heading to our bedroom, I walk straight for the shower, stripping off my clothes and once again wishing for a biohazard bag. I scrub twice, knocking off the dirt and foul sweat that only comes from being absolutely terrified. I gingerly wash my hair, trying not to disturb the painful lump from being knocked unconscious. What is it with these mafia types and knocking me over the head?
Finishing, I dry off and dress in similar PJs to the clothes I left Tasha, though my shirt I steal out of Sean’s drawer. I comb out my wet hair and walk back to the living room. I find the men in Sean’s office, gathered around the fireplace, each holding a glass of whisky. I detour to the kitchen to grab a beer for myself and return. I plop down on the plush rug in front of Sean’s chair. I lean my head against his leg. He starts rubbing my neck and shoulders absently. I try not to drool on his pants.
“So Popov and his little henchman Boris are both dead?” This comes from Patrick.
“Aye.” Sean swirls his whisky in the glass. I’ve noticed he does that when he’s working something out in his brain.
“Who does that leave in charge of the Bratva?” Declan asks.
Patrick looks at Sean expectantly. Sean looks at me.
