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So I’m coming—by any means necessary.
We reach a horde of people sprinting in the opposite direction, which can mean only one thing: Pavel must be close. I throw the car into park and leap out, gun in hand, just as gunshots wail through the air.
Civilians go streaming past me. I run upstream, round the corner, and find Pavel crouched behind the open door of his truck as he ducks out of range of the half a dozen Irish soldiers unloading at him.
All I grunt is, “Where?”
He points, I follow his finger, and then I’m off and running again, Irish bullets be damned. They zip past my ears like hornets as I zig and zag from one hiding spot to the next.
I’m distantly aware of more of my men answering the call that Aleksandr put out as we sped to the hospital, but most of my attention is focused on the car mangled a dozen yards away from where Pavel is stationed.
It’s smashed all to hell on one side, broken glass everywhere, metal frame crunched and bent—and through the shattered window, I see a familiar shock of soft brown hair.
“Wren!” I roar.
I rip the ruined door off its hinges and hurl it aside.
She’s curled up in a ball on the floor of the back seat, trembling like a leaf. Her arms are peppered with fresh scrapes on her arms, but otherwise, she looks unhurt. She scrambles backward at the sound of my voice, too terrified to realize what’s happening.
“Wren,” I try again. “It’s me. I’m here.”
That seems to get through to her. “D-Dmitri…?”
“It’s me, moya devushka. I’m here.”
A sob escapes her lips. She looks exhausted and relieved at the same time. “Thank God,” she sobs. “Thank God.”
I reach for her and she moves easily into my arms. Breathing hard, I lift her out of the car and carry her to one of my men’s vehicles.
“If any of the Irish are still alive,” I hiss to Aleksandr, “kill them.”
Then I get into the backseat of one of the Wranglers and order Pavel to drive us out. Her belly is big. Big enough that keeping her in the crook of my arms is difficult.
But I refuse to let her go.
Now that she’s finally back where she belongs, I’m never letting her out of my sight.
6
WREN
He doesn’t stop touching me.
His arms are already wrapped around me, but it’s like he needs to check to make sure I’m really here with him. He keeps stroking my back, my shoulders, my face. He tucks a lock of hair back behind my ear. Every time the vehicle jerks or brakes, he holds me just a little bit tighter.
Strangely, I find that I don’t mind. After weeks of uncertainty and insecurity, he feels safe and comfortable and wholly certain.
So does our destination.
I never expected arriving at the penthouse to feel like coming home, but that’s what it is. I see the illuminated sign for The Muse at Haven Crest and I can finally breathe again.
“How are you feeling?” he asks as we ride up the elevator, his arm looped around my waist.
“I, um… I’m not quite sure,” I admit. “It hurts all over.”
He nods grimly. “I’ve already contacted Liza. She’s on her way over as we speak.”
I just sigh and burrow into his embrace.
