With a mouthful of bobby pins, Isla gathered her hair into a loose ponytail and slid the pins near the elastic band. Her phone vibrated.
Reed: I can’t fulfill your request at this time.
Isla: Are you really going to do this?
Reed: I am.
She growled. Her thumbs pounded the glass screen.
Isla: I’m on my way to Ives. You ducking better be there.
“Damnit.”
Isla: Fucking. Fucking better be there.
Isla fumed, she didn’t wait for his response. She stomped down the stairs. Martin seemed to believe Reed would love the breaking news along with his eggs and jelly toast. What was hidden beneath those words? Everything that was said within the families had another meaning.
“If he’s behind this, so help me . . .” She jabbered and grabbed her leather backpack.
ISLA SHOOK HER fist as a burn beat through her fingers.
The first boy she ever punched was in first grade. She’d climbed the steel jungle gym, even in her saddle shoes and pink skirt; she beat the boys to the top. It was school picture day. Isla’s curled pigtails bounced with each hoist. Though she had white tights on, Ben Wyatt peeked up her skirt and mocked her underpants. The seven year old perv, in his sailboat sweater, was photographed with a bruised, swollen right eye and cut lip.
Why couldn’t she have fought back when Ronan was ripping her to shreds and stealing her innocence? She had no problem knocking her husband down with an upper cut and a kick to the groin. God, she was screwed up.
When Reed swaggered toward her with bed head and a sleepy gaze, she lost control and attacked.
The corners of her lips curled upward as she watched Reed squirm on the floor, payment for the visual Isla concocted in her brain of her husband screwing the mystery whore in the hotels silken sheets.
“I think I’m—I’m going to throw up.” He said in a higher octave.
“Good.”
He dry heaved and gasped. “My jaw.”
“Good.”
“What’s your problem?”
Isla stood over him holding her hand. “You’re my problem. You arrogant, narcissistic ass hat. Joe Abbott told me where you were, and that you were with another woman. How do you think that looks, Pot?”
Reed reached for the edge of the counter and pulled up. “You don’t—”
“Did you have something to do with the set up of Crosby’s dad? Is that why you are hiding out here with some slutbag?” Charges poured from her mouth. “Are you trying to prove something to Ellis? To the families? To prove you can hurt me?”
A pale Reed wrapped ice cubes in a paper towel and offered it to Isla. “Your knuckles are swollen.”
“I don’t want your stupid ice. I want you to tell me why you are here and not home. Your father is looking for you, Carys is worried, and you think of only yourself.”
He held the makeshift ice pack to his chin, Reed’s bloodshot gaze stayed on Isla. She felt claustrophobic, like his stare was pulling the walls in around her and she was unable to move.
“Are you done?” He said in a calm, low tone.
She blinked and gathered air for another vomit of verbal insults but stopped. “For now.”
“I’m going to ignore the fact you barged in here and assaulted me for reasons you psychotically prattled on about. I don’t know anything about Crosby’s father. I haven’t spoken to Martin in weeks. I’ll call my father back, and Carys has her own problems to worry about. And furthermore, I don’t have to justify anything to you.” He dumped the ice and paper towel in the trash and wiped his hand on the back of his t-shirt. “You’ve made it clear our marriage was nothing but a business transaction.”
“Did you fuck her?”
“Vulgar, Isla. I don’t know of any woman, I’m here alone.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I love you. God help me, I do, but you don’t give a damn about us so stop pretending you do.”
She did though. She hated Reed for it, but she hated herself more.
In a moving glance, Isla saw his hurt. The same hurt she walked away from the night he accused her of cheating. He crossed the kitchenette; a burst of sun hit her eyes. Reed’s watch reflected off a stream of light, he picked up her purse from the floor and handed it to her.
“You need to cool off.”
He didn’t let go when she grabbed the strap. The flicker of a distorted emotion passed between them. “Martin Sutton is an evil man. Stay away from him.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I’ll deal with him.”
“Will you?”
His lips thinned and he let go. Isla’s cell phone vibrated in the outer pocket, she walked around him but stopped just short of the door and glanced over her shoulder.
“For the record, I never dirtied our vows with an affair. I would never do that to you.”
She didn’t know why she said it. Isla left the penthouse suite but didn’t want to wait for the elevator. She hurried down a few flights of stairs and pulled her phone out.
Ellis: Come to the office.
Isla: On my way.
The echo of a slammed door kicked up her downward pace. Winded, she pushed open the heavy door and entered the underground parking garage. Her rubber soles squeaked against the polished cement floors. Though the garage was fully lit with wands of fluorescent light, it was false security.
The stench of exhaust and oil pricked her nostrils as she drew closer to her car. Across from her a windowless van idled. A loud thud came from inside, Isla paused. The van rocked back and forth, then stilled. Her fingers wound tight around the straps of her bag. Fluttered heartbeats rippled up her throat. The van’s back doors flung open. A woman jumped out, her heels pounded the ground as her long dark hair swung behind her in a tight gathered ponytail.
Isla held her breath while the woman scanned the garage. The woman set her sights on Isla and crossed with sleek but firm strides. She pressed her finger to her lips. The woman was scary and reminded Isla of a posh assassin in leather pants, and stud-toed boots. Blots of red were on the woman’s white blouse.
Her adrenaline spiked.
“Don’t try to run from me, Isla Pierce.”
Her name rolled elegantly but rough from the woman’s tongue. She was the woman cussing out whomever on the phone, in Martin’s lobby.
“You’ve been following me.”
She smirked. “My name is Kata. You’re husband wanted a watchful eye kept on you.”
The two stood face to face between a pillar and a sports car. Kata’s defined facial structure could cut glass. She was gorgeous, and Isla hated her because she was positive this was the woman with Reed.
“How do you know my husband?”
“Don’t be jealous.” Kata teased.
“I’m not,” she said, but she was. “I was informed of your affiliation with my husband here at this hotel. I don’t like it, I don’t like you, and I don’t trust you.”
“Do you fear me?”
Isla shook her head. “Death showed me her wings. I fear nothing and no one.”
“Reed spoke of your strength.”
Kata skimmed the garage again and stepped closer to Isla. She smelled of citrus and mint. “Reed and I are not lovers, but we do share common interest.”
“And that would be?”
Kata lifted her gaze above Isla’s head focusing on the convex mirror. Her eyebrow arched. Full lips twitched. Her chest stilled. The posture was familiar to Isla.
Enemies approached.
A RUSH OF bullets pierced the air and Kata’s body. Shells bounced on the concrete and glass exploded around them. Fragments imbedded into Isla’s exposed skin. The back of her shoulder stung.
She crawled. She pleaded. She crawled. She cursed.
Under cars, on her belly, Isla wriggled away from the violence. Whoever took out Kata would come after her next. The exit was too far. Her best chance was to keep quiet and bargain with any deity listening that security would catch it on the camer
as and come for her.
Isla’s purse slipped from her shoulder somewhere between Kata’s shot up body and the SUV she was hiding underneath. Her phone and .357 Magnum might as well be across the universe.
She heard voices—deep, throaty.
Tires screeched in the distance. More assassins coming most likely. Two wasn’t enough? Dread, as loud as the gunshots had roared, blasted in her mind. The lethal soldiers could be after Reed and rush the hotel. Innocent people would die if that happened.
Adrenaline numbed Isla’s pain. She searched for her bag. Left to right, right to left. Instead, she locked onto Kata lying in a pool of blood. Her eyes were open but from what Isla could tell, she was dead. Two sets of dark shoes stopped at the top of Kata’s head. One kicked her. She didn’t move.
Kata’s lifeless body jerked as another bullet was fired into her forehead. Isla bit down hard on her lip. She heard the tires screech again; this time they were closer than the last. A horn blared, drawing the killers toward the noise. Isla listened and hurried to find her purse while they were distracted. Staying low, she heard an engine growl. She peeked through a car’s shot out windows as a streak of silver bolted across the row, tires screeching again.
She was on the verge of losing her shit.
“Isla.”
She held her breath.
“Isla?”
She climbed clumsily to her feet. “Reed.”
He turned and weaved between cars as Isla trembled where she was. She thought she was moving but wasn’t. She thought she had said his name but she hadn’t. What was happening to her? Sharp tools of violence picked away at her brain leaving her afraid and vulnerable. Isla’s vision blinked out of focus.
Reed grabbed her by the forearms. Pain burst across her shoulder blades and all she could see was the bedroom with the neoclassical French wallpaper while her blood splattered on the peeling seam.
“You’re bleeding.” Reed’s brows pushed together. “Come on, we have to get out of here.”
Her feet dragged along the ground as he pulled her through the maze of bullet-riddled cars. Did he say I’m bleeding? Her thoughts lagged though opaque eyes. Nothing made sense. Everything made sense. Clarity was within her reach but still sneered and mocked her from a distance.
The sequence of their escape mingled with her hallucinations and reality. He helped Isla into the passenger seat and buckled her in. Reed slammed the door and jogged around the front of the car before slipping inside the driver side. He shifted the car and slammed on the gas. Isla slumped against the door and window.
“Stay awake, Isla. Don’t close your eyes.”
“I’m awake,” she muttered.
“Come on, don’t you dare close your eyes.”
“I . . .”
“Can you hear me? God damn it.”
I do. I love you.
I love you . . .
RONAN SLIPPED HIS shirt on.
“There is much wicked inside of you, Isla.” He smeared his toe through the drops of red on the floor. “The blood of Satan. Clean it up.”
Isla scaled the side of the bed. The sheet aided her as she hoisted her torn body onto the mattress. Each inhale scraped against her rib cage, the sting curved her spine.
Her eyes narrowed. Ronan ran his hand through his silvery hair. A swipe of her blood tinged his sideburn. He walked into the bathroom. She heard water running. Isla willed and pushed up.
Her body jerked as she stood with heavy limbs. She steadied herself. Isla locked onto the belt. She wasn’t a whore or a sinner. She wasn’t a vile creation from Satan. Ronan was. His defilement crept along her flesh. In her womb Isla carried purity. Beauty amongst the beasts, she’d believe nothing but.
Evil may have ravaged her body, but her soul was unscathed.
She fought the fight.
Ronan would never touch her again.
With careful fingers, she picked up the belt by the buckle and squeezed the metal. She wrapped the stained leather around her hand. Her open gashes flared with each binding of the belt against her skin.
Quiet slunk from the bathroom, as did Ronan. He wiped his hands on a towel. Isla cranked her fist back, stepped forward, and fired off the bound leather into his crotch and proceeded with an uppercut to his chin. He crumpled to the floor, groaning, yelling obscenities as blood dripped from his mouth. As the towel fell to his feet, Ronan stepped and slipped backward, shouting her name. With a thud, the back of his head collided with the sink before he landed on the tile.
Ronan stilled.
She waited and watched.
His chest rose and fell.
The belt unwound from her fist.
“You clean it up,” Isla gritted.
ISLA CRIED OUT as she jerked awake. Her shoulder pinched and throbbed. Isla blinked—slow—her focus on the fan as it whirled above her. She counted each rotation until the aching subsided, and she could shift her attention elsewhere.
Her throat was dry, and her lungs tight. Isla coughed. Her hand trailed up her stomach to her rib cage checking her injuries, which were tender. She concentrated on moving her legs.
Soft fabric brushed across her skin as she turned. The mattress sunk beneath her making it difficult to push up. She ignored the discomfort and worked her body higher against the pillows. Her fingers gripped the sides of the headboard.
The feelings she experienced reminded her of the day-after-aches from Ronan’s lashings; her body hung over from pangs of disgust.
Where was she? She remembered Kata, gunshots, sounds . . . Memories rushed around her mind but she wasn’t able to latch onto them.
Her eyes darted from the furthest corner of the khaki green wall to the fireplace to the snowy sheers. Crisp linens covered her. Isla pushed them down with her feet—her bare feet. Her shoes were gone, as were her jeans and shirt. Isla pulled at the rose frock around her. Her sense of urgency dawdled. To process her surroundings paralyzed Isla.
The doorknob clicked and spun, and a petite woman in dark scrubs pushed the door open. Lines bracketed her smile. She closed the door behind her.
“You’re finally awake. How do you feel?”
“Who are you? Where am I?”
“My name is Rosa, and you are at your father-in-law Ellis’ home.” She replied with a distinct Scandinavian dialect.
Isla jerked her head, which was not smart. “How long have I been here?”
“Reed brought you here two days ago. I clean you. Bandage your wound.”
“Is Reed still here?”
“Yes.”
Rosa walked through a doorway next to the fireplace and returned with a long black dress. She laid the garment across the bed.
“You will wear for dinner. Shower first.”
“Dinner?”
“Yes.”
Still dazed, Isla didn’t argue but walked into the marble shower. Various soaps were lined up. Stripping from her clothes, she was able to balance against the wall, but Rosa still insisted on helping.
When the hot water washed over her shoulder the pain was almost pleasurable. She must have injured it while dodging the bullets and flying shards of glass. Or perhaps she sliced it under one of the vehicles she crawled under. The water cascaded down her body.
Isla washed. Scrubbed. Washed. Rinsed.
She shut the water off. No matter how she bent or stretched, her muscles ached. Her mind was catching up to the present, like a shot of epinephrine had been inserted into her brain.
Jules.
With towel in hand, Rosa extended her arm. “Come, I help you dress.”
Isla was in an alternate universe or a different cosmic plane—while naked—but she accepted Rosa’s gesture anyway. She steadied herself. The pads of her feet anchored to the floor. Once Rosa saw her capability to stand without assistance, she stretched over to the counter. Isla concealed what she could with her hands. With a gentle smile Rosa handed her a lace bra and panties. Covered and fastened, Isla threaded her hands through the straps of the dress. Rosa gav
e a generous yank over Isla’s ample chest. The silk spilled down to her toes. The high leg split caused her to pull the fabric closed. Rosa swatted at her hands.
“Freyja.”
Isla opened her mouth to correct the woman but the bedroom door swept open.
“Isla?” Reed called out.
She turned to face him and in a breath she was raw, exposed of all safeguards. Rosa slid behind him and out the bedroom door closing it behind her. He walked toward her. Shades of purple and blue colored the skin beneath his stubble-covered chin.
When was it enough? When would she own up to her feelings? Did she want to break him because she was broken? It wasn’t right. He saved Isla after she punched him. What had she done? Acidity heated her gut. She was disgusted by her actions. Why did he love her?
Why?
His rich, cognac eyes gleamed against his all black suit ensemble. Reed’s dark textured spikes were styled in a conservative manner but with a rebel businessman edge. A twinge drifted across her hips. Looking at Reed made her feel loved. He protected and adored her, even with their distance. No matter how hard she shoved Reed away, he shoved right back with compassion.
Reed cupped her face. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
He pulled her closer. Warm lips pressed against Isla’s. She didn’t resist. His delicious mouth and tongue welcomed. Isla breathed him in and tasted Reed. She grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him closer to deepen their kiss. Damn the consequences. Damn Ronan. She couldn’t turn back on what she felt for Reed. Her heart beat not just for her and Jules, but also for him—for all of them. Though foreign to Isla, her love was real. Real as the pain that clinched her chest at the thought of anything happening to him.
He pulled back slightly. “I never meant for you to get hurt.”
“What are you talking about?”
The Red Roots Page 3