“Umm. Yeah.” A pause. “Sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
The reasonable part of him knew that. But reason hadn’t been the foremost driver when it came to Bonnie. Curiosity, yes. Appreciation and challenge, definitely. But common sense hadn’t factored since she’d called him bossy to his face.
She strode into view, her head down, backpack firmly stowed on her shoulders and hands jammed in the pockets of her jean jacket. A distracted pose he’d never seen on her before. Especially, not this late at night. Either she was deep in her thoughts, exhausted from another double shift, or both. Neither was wise for a woman like her walking home this late at night. “You know your assignment. Be ready for her in the morning.”
He ended the call without another word, and the silence in the truck’s interior swelled. What was the kinder path? To let time provide the answers? Or face her tonight and state the facts clearly? Were she anyone else, he’d undoubtedly choose the latter, but the mere thought of hurting her more than she’d already suffered was untenable.
She rounded the corner of her apartment building, headed toward her unit.
Odd. She didn’t normally leave her light on, but a pale light glowed behind the closed blinds.
A prickling awareness whispered across his shoulders and down his arms, and the muscles in his torso tensed. It could have been an oversight by the maintenance crew he’d coerced the landlord to send over. Or a subtle message from the landlord himself that all the repairs and improvements Roman had demanded had been seen to.
She stopped in front of the door, keys in hand.
Movement from the parking lot registered in his periphery, the reflection of the streetlight flashing against the glass of a car door opening.
Not right.
Too coincidental.
He quietly exited the truck and rounded the tailgate, volleying his attention between the parking lot and Bonnie.
She opened the door.
A shadow moved behind the blinds and Bonnie’s sharp scream cut through the night.
Fuck.
He moved on pure instinct, his boot heels pounding against the asphalt. Quick steps registered on his right, but the more prevalent threat was directly in front of him—a thin male wearing jeans and a dark hoodie chasing Bonnie out into the street.
Her eyes widened at the sight of him, shock and confusion at first, followed hard by relief. Her pursuer noted his presence one heartbeat too late. In three swift moves, Roman had him on the ground, his knee obliterated and his arm torqued behind his back. “Who do you work for?”
Bonnie yelped behind him and a masculine voice shouted, “Let him go.”
The man from the parking lot.
A lookout for whatever job they’d been about.
And now he had Bonnie braced in front of him as a shield with a knife held to her neck.
A chilling cold swept through him, a flash of light against the blade drawing all his focus to where the edge pressed against her pale skin.
Bonnie rolled high on her tiptoes, instinct pushing her to gain distance from the threat. She stared at him. Her breaths huffed out short and ragged. “Roman.”
No more than a whisper, but the plea behind it was implicit. The terror and desperation behind her eyes reaching to the coldest depths inside him.
The man staggered beneath her shifting weight, the bulk of Bonnie’s backpack between them making his hold more difficult to maintain. Despite his bold actions, uncertainty and inexperience were written in every line of his expression.
“Oh, I will let him go.” Roman quickly checked the man beneath him for concealed weapons, then released him, stood and squared his shoulders. “But you will die.”
Roman stalked toward him, slow and deliberate.
Her captor’s hand quivered.
Bonnie whimpered and blood blossomed at the edge of the blade. She tugged the man’s forearm, trying desperately to get away, but her eyes stayed locked on Roman.
“She bleeds,” Roman said, not stopping. “For that, your death will be slow.”
The man panicked, shoved Bonnie to one side and bolted.
But Roman was faster. Fueled with fury and focused on his prey. Ready and willing to render punishment.
One grab. One twist of the wrist and the blade was in Roman’s hand. He rammed it deep. A strike to the kidney.
The man jerked inside Roman’s unyielding hold and his pain-filled cry rang out into the night.
“That is for touching her,” Roman growled. He yanked the blade free, eager for the feel of the hard steel sliding home once more.
Movement sounded behind him. Scuffles at first followed by heavy footfalls moving away fast.
Not the man on the ground.
Bonnie.
The beast inside him roared, the coppery bite of blood whetting his need for vengeance.
But he couldn’t let her run. Couldn’t risk failing her again if others watched and waited for a chance to lay hands on her.
He let the man fall to a heap on the asphalt and raced after her, his strides eating up the distance between them in no time.
“Bonnie!” He caught her half a block away and pulled her against him.
She fought him, flailing and kicking for all she was worth.
He spun her to face him. “Bonnie. It’s Roman.”
Her movements ceased on a ragged sob. For long seconds, she stared up at him as if unable to focus, tears streaming down her cheeks. She clutched his shoulders and squeezed. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a rasp. “Roman.”
As soon as she said it, her knees buckled.
He caught her and pulled her against him, the tremors that rattled her body so powerful they reverberated through his own.
A car door slammed in the distance and an engine roared to life.
The corner where he’d left his prey lay empty.
Not good. Especially with both of them exposed on the street without a weapon.
He hefted Bonnie into his arms and ducked into the shadows of the boarded-up building beside them just as a silver sedan spun out of the parking lot and gunned down the street, weaving unsteadily from one side to the other.
TIF-183.
Louisiana plates.
A recent model Chevy sedan.
A lead. Finally. Albeit one earned at a high cost.
In his arms, Bonnie wept, her head heavy against his shoulders and her gut-wrenching tears dampening his T-shirt. For all the bravado and moxy she’d shown in the time he’d known her, she was utterly gutted now. Stripped of the last of her defenses by one too many hurdles.
Odd, how content he was to remain hidden with her in the shadows. To keep her cradled close. To keep the world at bay for just a moment longer and surround her with his strength—even if that infernal backpack she carried with her everywhere made the task that much more difficult.
He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, the deep auburn strands that so matched her bold personality like silk against his skin. More than anything, he wanted to press his mouth to her forehead. To nuzzle her temple and whisper sweet words designed to still her tears.
But he was a killer. One short on pretty words and vulnerable in a tenuous situation with an innocent in tow. He inhaled deep, the light flowery scent that clung to her skin filling his lungs and testing his resolve. “Breathe, malen’kaya koroleva. You are safe, but I need to get us out of here.”
Her sobs hitched and her arms tightened around his neck, as though just the thought of moving from the shelter he’d created rattled her very soul. “I can’t. I just—”
“You can. You will.” Even uttering the words knifed his conscience. But he knew the streets. Knew that whomever had come for her tonight wouldn’t be long in returning. Especially given the wounds he’d inflicted on the men who’d gotten away. �
�Once you’re secured, I will give you all the time you need, but for now, you must be strong a little longer.”
She hiccupped on a deep breath and rolled her head so her forehead pressed against his collarbone. With a few more sniffles behind her, she loosened her arms and lifted her head enough to nod. “Okay. I’m good. You can put me down.”
She wasn’t good.
More like dancing perilously close to the edge of an emotional chasm.
But he refused to let her fall. A week ago, she might not have had anyone to keep her tethered, but now she had him. His family and their resources. He’d mentored many people over the years. Helped them find their purpose the way Sergei had guided him all those years ago. Granted, he’d only focused on boys in foster homes or orphanages thus far, but he could do the same with Bonnie.
Starting now.
He eased her to her feet and held her by her waist. “Steady?”
“Yeah.” Despite the positive response, she kept her gaze trained downward.
He tipped her face to his with two fingers beneath her chin, needing the visual confirmation as much as her words.
Fatigue, hopelessness and surrender stared back at him, the harsh emotions barely contained within a fragile shell of pure tenacity.
For now, it was enough.
He checked the street. From their vantage point, he couldn’t gauge what interest their altercation might have roused among other tenants in the apartment complex, but no one stirred on the block between here and Bonnie’s building. The nose of his Ford was barely visible in the alley’s shadows, but it was enough for her to make it out. Pulling her in front of him, he pointed to it. “Do you see my truck?”
She dashed the back of her hand against the tears lining one cheek and narrowed her eyes. “Yeah.”
“Good. We will walk toward it together. When I tell you, you will cut across the street, get in and lock the doors.” He pressed the keys in her palm. “If anyone approaches, you will start it and you will leave. Understood?”
She shook her head and faced him. “No. Let’s just both get in and go.”
Even in the darkness, the line of blood where her captor had nicked her flesh was clear against her pale skin. Without thinking, he traced a path just beneath the wound with his thumb. Despite the chill, her skin was warm. Soft and delicate. “I threw the knife on the street when I ran after you. If it is still there, it is a lead. Fingerprints that might be registered in a criminal database.” Assuming he hadn’t eradicated any prints with his own and her would-be captors had left it behind. “There will be more inside your home. I have resources who can gather evidence, but I need to secure your apartment and look for the knife before we go.”
She swallowed hard. Though, whether it was because of his touch, or the reminder of her terrifying experience he couldn’t know. “Right.” She blew out a shaky breath and gripped his forearms. “Okay. I can do that.”
With one last scan up and down the street, he clutched her upper arm and steered her from the shadows.
Only one block. Minimal ground to cover if he were on his own. But without a weapon and braced to cover Bonnie at the slightest hint of danger, it felt more on par with a mile.
The knife lay near curb, just twenty feet ahead.
Roman steered Bonnie in front of him, angled toward his truck. “Go. Now.”
Eyes focused on the street, she took off at a jog, popped the door and locked herself inside.
He carefully gathered the knife, mindful to only grasp the ivory handle where he’d clutched it before. Keeping it close to his side, he casually ambled toward Bonnie’s still open door. One light on the second story burned bright that hadn’t been on before, but no one stood outside and no shadows showed behind the curtains. Otherwise, the complex was eerily silent.
Yet another aspect of her life he intended to deal with as soon as possible. As loudly as she’d cried out, she should have woken at least her immediate neighbors. The fact that no one had come to her defense was unacceptable.
He ducked inside her apartment, removing the keys that still dangled from the lock and stuffing them in the front pocket of his jeans. As he’d expected, her meager belongings were no longer tidily stowed away. The futon mattress made up the bulk of the mess, the majority of its insides now strewn across the living room floor. The card table sat on its side with the plastic storage tubs that had sat on top now spilled all over the carpet. Her bedroom was more of the same—the comforter thrown on the floor, the mattress obviously searched and every drawer rummaged through.
Bastards.
It was bad enough she had almost nothing. But to see what little there was so callously disparaged and disregarded made his insides roil with fury. He would find them. Learn every detail about them and mete out justice befitting of their crimes.
For now, though, Bonnie needed him. He searched the kitchen and found a plastic storage tub for the knife. Once sealed away, he turned off the lights, locked the door behind him and hustled to the truck.
Bonnie sat in the passenger’s seat, her body slunked low enough only the very top of her head showed over the dash. She jolted the second he moved into her line of sight. Almost as quickly, she popped the locks.
“Did you find it?” she asked as soon as he climbed in the cab and shut the door behind him.
He took the keys from her outstretched hand and dipped his head to the plastic tub he’d stowed in the backseat. “Yes.” He fired up the engine, checked each way and pulled into the street.
Silence filled the truck’s interior, broken only by the motor’s rumble and the drone of tires as they accelerated onto the highway. His preference was to contact Luke and get him on point at Bonnie’s apartment before those behind the attack could return, but Bonnie was already strung too tight. Even with her back flush against the seat, her posture was uncomfortably straight, her eyes locked dead ahead and her fists clenched tight on either thigh. She didn’t need more details rattling around in her head. Witnessing his capacity for violence had been more than enough.
Yes, the silence was better. Less riddled with conversational landmines. Though he found himself wishing the center console between them was nonexistent. Physical affection beyond a casual interlude here and there had never been his strong suit, but he found himself itching to touch her. To hold her and stroke her hair. An utterly foreign response he wasn’t entirely sure how to process.
He exited the highway onto St. Charles, slowly making his way along the northern edge of the Garden District toward the townhome he’d bought just a mile from Sergei’s estate.
Bonnie didn’t budge. Didn’t study her surroundings outside as she had the last time he’d driven her here or give any indication she was aware of her whereabouts at all. Just stared out the windshield, her lips tight and her eyes glazed as though a million memories replaced her sight.
He turned onto Eighth Street and drove the two blocks to his home. Built in the early ’80s, it kept with the same plantation style as most other homes in the Garden District, but had significantly less space than Sergei’s massive estate. Still, the four bedrooms and four baths were nothing to sneeze at. The exterior was simple—white walls and evergreen painted shutters—but the location and layout were perfect. From here, he could be at his pakhan’s home within minutes. More than that, there were very few angles that were indefensible should someone breach his personal haven.
Rounding the street in front of the house, he turned into the alley and punched the remote to the garage door. Whether it was the drastic change in surroundings or the loss of background noise when he killed the engine that pricked her awareness, he couldn’t be certain, but she shook her head as if shaking off the fog of sleep. “Where are we?”
“My home.” He pushed the button on his rearview mirror and the garage door trundled closed. He gave way to impulse and covered one of her fisted hands with his. “You will
be safe here.”
She studied the unpacked boxes outside her door and the tools hung neatly on the peg board above his workbench. Despite the considering perusal, she still seemed uncustomarily detached. As if her brain was online and absorbing, but wasn’t quite sure how to generate a resulting action. A reasonable reaction given all she’d been through. An emotional armor of sorts he’d seen even the most hardened men employ when an event had pushed them too far beyond what they could safely process and remain sane.
He gave her fist a gentle squeeze before he released it. “Stay where you are. I’ll help you down.”
By the time he opened her door, she still hadn’t moved. Only stared down at her lap as if drained of any capacity to do anything save breathe and exist. Unwilling to ask her to endure any more than she already had, he slung her backpack over one shoulder and picked her up.
She startled at first, but settled as soon as she seemed to realize there was no threat and wearily rested her head against his shoulder. Her body was nearly deadweight as he carried her inside. As if all the fight that had been left inside her had slowly leaked onto the floor of his truck on the drive home, leaving nothing more than muscle, skin and bone behind.
In truth, he was oddly grateful. Both that, for a small moment, she was free of her worries, and that he’d been given time of his own to hold her. To ease the burden of ineptitude and self-recrimination he’d harbored all day through the simple, unexpected connection.
Only the most cursory lights glowed on the first floor—a small brushed steel pendent light over his sink in the updated kitchen and a lamp in the living room across from it. A study sat dark to one side of the main entry, but the glow of the old-fashioned streetlamp outside cut a wide enough swath to let him safely carry Bonnie to the second floor.
He paused at the top of the landing. There were two bedrooms at either end, both finished out by Evette in the last year after she’d learned they were empty, but if he put Bonnie in either one of those he’d be unable to hear her.
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