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Then a familiar voice slices through the air like a razor.
“Enough.”
Simon turns, his triumph faltering, his grip on my neck slackening.
“Who the fuck are you?” he says, but his voice is hoarse.
“I’m the man you should never have laid hands on.”
What the fuck is he talking about, I think. Luca steps into the dimly lit basement. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt and black slacks, his hair is slicked back. He’s holding a white bow in his hand, an arrow nocked and drawn, tipped with red fletching.
The arrow is pointed at Simon, but his eyes are locked onto mine. There’s a flicker of something between us, an ice-cold spark that floods me with a sudden warmth, like sunrays in the middle of a blizzard. My heart skips a beat, which I definitely attribute to the adrenaline and constricted airflow.
Simon drops me from his grip. I scramble weakly back as he turns to face Luca, slowly raising his hand. “I have no idea who you are, I’ve never even met you, how could I have l—”
“You laid your hands on her,” Luca says, his voice a razor blade. “You touched what is mine, which I consider a personal attack on my person.”
“Look, mate, I—”
Simon doesn’t get to finish his sentence. There’s a whistling sound and a thick wet thwack. Simon drops like a sack of shit. He doesn’t so much as twitch when he hits the floor. He’s dead.
I’ve not even fully caught my breath. I gather myself up onto my knees by Simon’s carcass, and I spit a mouthful of blood into his face. And then I slump back onto the floor, my body shaking uncontrollably, and the pain comes slamming home, everywhere, all at once.
Luca’s footsteps echo crisply through the basement. His face comes into view, pale and a little bored.
“There are easier ways to get my attention, Lynch.”
I smile weakly up at him. “A bow and arrow, Luca? That’s so fucking lame.”
He hands his bow to someone I don’t see. I realise for the first time there are more people in the room—two men in dark suits. Luca bends down to scoop me up into his arms.
“You know what’s fucking lame?” he sneers. “Nearly dying.”
“You know what’s lamer than that? Saving the day.”
“What makes you think I’m saving you?”
But hedidsave me, that absolute piece of shit. I didn’t think he would; I didn’t think anybody would. Of anyone in the world who could have come through this door to slay my monsters and carry me away in his arms, it had to behim.
34
Devil's Reprisal
Luca
Willow lies on herhospital bed, looking more fragile than I’ve ever known her. The stark hospital lights and white cotton gown do not suit her at all. Her face, half-wrapped in gauze bandaging, is a splattered canvas of injuries, swollen flesh and livid hematomas painting an image of the brutality she must have endured before my arrival in that basement.
The swelling around her right eye distorts the features of her face; her lips are split and swollen. It’s a miracle she didn’t lose any teeth—I made the doctor check. Her wrists, beneath their bandages, are lacerated, bruises mar her entire body. The vivid palette of her pain makes my entire body tight and cold with offended fury, like finding an amateur’s brushstrokes across a priceless masterpiece.
Willow is mine to bruise and mar. Is that not why I put legal shackles on her by making her sign the contract? Is that not why I chose to have her bound tomyside? Pain was supposed to beourgame. Simon Doughtry had no right to reach across our chessboard and smash at the precious pieces; he paid the price for that affront.
Nadine hovers by the bed, a hint of genuine concern etched across her features. She leans down to brush a strand of hair away from Willow’s face, her touch surprisingly gentle. It’s the first time I’ve seen this side of Nadine, and I wonder if Willow has succeeded in catching Nadine in her web of seduction.
Woodrow, staunch as ever, observes from the doorway. His grey eyes do not betray so much as a hint of concern, but instead of holding his ever-present tablet, there’s an enormous bouquet of white lilies in his arms. Something he brought with him of his own volition, with his own money.
“It’s been almost a week,” I tell Nadine. “She’s not getting better.”
Nadine shoots me a look like a bullet, sharp, perhaps annoyed, almost disapproving.
