by Elle Kennedy
As adrenaline thudded in her blood, she quickly covered herself up. Sean didn’t look in her direction, not even once. It was like he was making a pointed effort not to, and distress fluttered through her as she took in the hard line of his shoulders, the inflexible set of his jaw.
“Sean,” she said tentatively.
“No. Stay put,” he muttered. “I’ve got it handled.”
It took a second to realize he wasn’t talking to her. He was addressing someone over the comm, his stiff fingers pressed to his ear as he barked another soft command.
“Damn it, D, maintain your position. I’ll let you know when I need you to come up.”
His hand dropped from his earpiece, and Bailey’s pulse accelerated when Sean finally met her eyes. But he didn’t say a word.
Bailey stalked past him and grabbed her Beretta, which Cillian had left on the arm of the couch. She set her jaw, then palmed the silenced weapon and aimed it at the unconscious man’s head. She wasn’t usually a bloodthirsty person, but her breast still bore the mark of Crooked Teeth’s hand, and she wasn’t going to lose sleep over eliminating the man. No, man was too generous. He was a monster, plain and simple.
“Put the gun down.”
Her gaze flew to Sean. “What?”
“Put the gun down.” His voice was eerily calm. “And you’re going to want to leave the room now.”
“No,” she said tersely, “what I want to do is take care of this sick bastard.”
Sean didn’t answer. He simply knelt beside Crooked Teeth and lightly slapped his fingertips on the man’s cheek. “Wake up,” Sean coaxed. “There you go, lad. Open those eyes.”
She blinked in alarm. “What are you doing?”
“Leave the room, Bailey.”
“No.” Every exhalation that left her mouth was laced with panic. She suddenly remembered the look in Sean’s eyes when he’d burst through that door. When he’d seen the thug’s hand on her naked breast. “He’s my responsibility.”
“Like hell he is,” Sean said fiercely. “He’s mine.”
“Sean—” she started.
“There you go,” he murmured to the rousing man. “Hello again.”
A pair of brown eyes peered up at them, then darted toward the couch. When Crooked Teeth realized that Cillian was gone, fear flooded his expression and he frantically tried to sit up.
To no avail, because Sean immediately trapped him with the weight of his own body, straddling the man’s thighs as he smiled down at him.
“Uh-uh, you’re not going anywhere. I’m not finished with you yet.” When the other man’s eyes pleadingly sought out Bailey, Sean forcefully gripped the guy’s chin. “Don’t you fucking look at her, you piece of shit. She can’t help you. No one can.”
“P-please,” Crooked Teeth begged. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“To what? Put your filthy hands on my girl? Sorry if I don’t accept your apology, mate.”
Bailey started to feel sick. She had no sympathy for Crooked Teeth—not a goddamn iota of it—but there was a right way to do things, and then there was the wrong way. Sometimes torture was necessary. Right now? It wasn’t.
“Sean, please don’t—”
He cut her off without turning his head. “Get the fuck out of here, Bailey. You don’t need to see this.”
“No,” Crooked Teeth blurted out. “Don’t kill me! I was just following orders, okay? I—”
A breath flew out of Sean’s mouth as recognition dawned on his face. “Oh shit. I know you.” His eyes narrowed at the prone man. “You’re the sick fuck who raped Jimmy Donovan’s sister about ten years back. Son of a bitch. When’d you get out of jail?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about! I didn’t do—”
“Brian Butler.” Sean snapped his fingers. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Brian fucking Butler, and you did rape that girl. She was fifteen years old, you bastard.” His head tipped pensively. “Does Jimmy know you’re out? Nah, he wouldn’t. If he did, you’d already be dead.”
Bailey’s stomach churned. She had to stop this. The reckless glimmer in Sean’s eyes scared the crap out of her.
And it clearly scared Crooked—Butler, she corrected herself. The man looked downright petrified as he stared at Sean. A second later, he abruptly changed his tune, contradicting his earlier pleas.
“You’re right. I fucked that girl and I deserve to die for it.” Butler went wild-eyed, each breath coming out shallow. “Just kill me, okay? Kill me now.”
Sean’s low chuckle made Bailey’s blood run cold. “Nice try, Brian. But I don’t think I want to kill you anymore. Not when Donovan will do that for me.”
“No, please—”
“But we’re not done yet, if that’s what you’re worried about. There’s still plenty of fun to be had, Brian.” Sean lifted one of Butler’s hands and examined it. “Is this the one you touched her with? No, it was your left hand. I remember now.”
Bailey swallowed a rush of nausea as Sean dropped Butler’s right hand and picked up the left one. “Sean, don’t,” she whispered.
A crack ripped through the air as Sean snapped Butler’s index finger. The man let out an agonized shriek, followed by three more as Sean broke his other fingers in rapid succession.
“There,” Sean said, nodding to himself. “All done.”
Butler whimpered, his hideous face contorted in pain.
“Oh, relax, Brian. The broken-bone portion of the day is over.” Sean flexed both his hands before cracking his knuckles. “Now I’m just going to kick your ass.”
Bailey’s heart lodged in her throat, horror and anger and disbelief forming a lethal cocktail inside her. “Sean, don’t do this,” she begged.
He glanced over his shoulder, his features hard, upper lip curled. “If you’re planning on staying, then save me the commentary. Otherwise, walk away.”
Helplessness trembled through her, bringing the sting of tears to her eyes.
Without a word, she spun on her heel and hurried out of the room.
Chapter 23
The morning from hell had turned into the afternoon from hell, which had promptly become the night from hell—and Sean knew it was nowhere close to being over. As he wearily climbed the stairs to his flat, he didn’t need to check his watch to know it was past midnight.
He’d spent the whole night at Rabbit’s pub, listening to the men discuss their next objective. By some miracle he’d sat next to Cillian without blowing the man’s brains out, though not for lack of temptation. But he couldn’t kill Kelly yet. Not until Bailey’s mother was out of harm’s way, and not until he dealt with Flannery.
But first, he needed to convince the woman he loved that he wasn’t the monster she thought he was.
When he strode into the living room, he found Isabel on the couch, reading a tattered copy of Joyce’s Ulysses that Oliver had left behind the last time he’d crashed at the flat.
Bailey was nowhere to be seen.
“Hey.” Isabel lifted her head at his entrance. “How did it go at O’Hare’s?”
“Fine, I guess.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “Where’s Bailey?”
“In the bedroom.”
“Let me guess—she saw me on the security monitors and went to hide.”
Isabel’s lips twitched. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“So on a scale of one to ten, how pissed is she?”
“Nine. Maybe nine and a half.” Isabel sighed ruefully. “Did you really have to beat that man half to death?”
Sean met her eyes. “Yes. I did.”
Just thinking about Butler brought his anger boiling back to the surface. Sean would never be able to erase the memory of that slimebag’s hands on Bailey. The filthy lust flashing in Butler’s eyes. The way Bailey had stood there, so utterly still, as if she’d been ready to let . . . that . . . happen to her.
His hands curled into fists, and suddenly he wished Butler were still here so he could work him over again. But th
e only traces remaining of the man were the bloodstains smeared on the hardwood beneath Sean’s boots.
After taking care of Leary’s body earlier that day, he and D had delivered the unconscious Butler to Jimmy Donovan. Saying that Donovan was shocked to open his door and find a bloody, beaten Butler at his feet . . . well, that would be the understatement of the year. But the deadly drug kingpin had gone from stunned to ecstatic in a matter of seconds, repeatedly vowing to Sean that he owed him one, even though Sean had no intention of ever coming to collect.
“You should talk to her.” Isabel’s hesitant voice broke through his thoughts.
“Yeah. I know.” He swallowed. “He was going to rape her, Iz.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But she wouldn’t have let him.”
Disbelief pummeled into him. “She wouldn’t have let him? She was just standing there! She wasn’t fighting back, damn it.”
Isabel’s voice rang with conviction. “If she wasn’t fighting back, then it was part of her plan. Bailey always has a plan, Sean.”
“Not this time, Iz. I could see it in her eyes. She didn’t know what to do and she was scared.”
“Maybe. But you got there in time. And Butler was incapacitated. You didn’t have to torture him.”
“What do you want me to say? I snapped, all right? I saw him touching her . . . no, pawing her, and I fucking snapped. A bullet to the head was too good for that bastard. He deserved what I gave him.” Sean rubbed the day’s worth of beard growth on his face, frustration rising inside him. “You can take off now, Iz. Head back to the hotel and get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Why? What’s tomorrow?”
“We’ll talk in the morning, okay? I promise, I’ll fill everyone in. But I’m still waiting on a few things, and right now, I’m too bloody exhausted to recap all the bullshit that went down at O’Hare’s tonight.”
Isabel tucked her phone in her pocket as she stepped toward him. “Don’t be a jackass to her, all right? She’s exhausted, too. And she’s not in the right frame of mind for an argument.”
Sean waited until Isabel was gone before he headed to the bedroom. He rapped his knuckles on the closed door, then opened it without waiting for an invitation.
Bailey was lying on the bed with her head against the frame, her slim body clad in leggings and a baggy blue shirt that fell over one shoulder. Her hair was in a ponytail, pulled away from her face to emphasize those big gray eyes.
“Is Butler dead?” she muttered.
He sat at the foot of the bed, knowing she’d want him to keep his distance. “Maybe. Probably not, though. Donovan will want to prolong that.” He hesitated. “Are you okay?”
“Am I okay how? Physically? Mentally? Emotionally?”
“All of the above,” he said gruffly.
She shrugged. “Yes. To all of the above.”
He didn’t believe her. She was still angry. He could see the volatile emotion simmering behind her flat, indifferent expression.
Sean let out a soft groan. “You know, I think you might be the only woman on the planet who would get pissed off at someone for beating up the man who tried to rape her.”
The anger breached the surface, lighting her eyes. “You lost it today, Sean. You lost it.”
“Yeah, I did. That’s what happens when you come home to find a man trying to rape your girlfriend.”
“You broke his fingers,” she burst out.
“You broke that other fucker’s neck! How is what you did okay, and yet I committed the mortal fucking sin?”
“Because I didn’t fucking enjoy it! I killed that man because I had to, and I would’ve killed Butler too, if you hadn’t shoved me aside and decided he was yours. But I wouldn’t have gotten any pleasure out of it.”
Christ, it seemed like everything he did made him less than perfect in Bailey’s eyes. What the hell would it take to prove his worth to her?
The depressing thought caused his frustration to spill over. “If I ask you to leave town because I want to keep you safe, I’m a controlling asshole. If I ask you questions about your past, I’m trying to have power over you. If I beat the shit out of a man who’s fondling you, I’m a bloodthirsty psycho.”
He shot to his feet, unable to control the surge of annoyance, the bite of resentment. “But I’m not any of those things, Bailey. I’m just a man. Yes, I’ve got flaws and I’ve got a temper, but that’s all you ever see when you look at me, and I’m bloody sick of fighting with you.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I’m tired of apologizing for wanting to protect you. That’s what a man does, goddamn it—he protects the woman he loves.” He heard her breath hitch, but he plowed right on. “If you can’t fucking understand that, then . . .”
Then what? He couldn’t even finish his own bloody sentence. The events of the day had caught up to him, left him numb and cold and so angry he couldn’t think straight.
“Guess what, luv—you have flaws too,” he said hoarsely. “You’re a control freak. You’re stubborn as hell. You’re terrified of letting anyone get close. You’re terrified of letting me get close.”
Her breathing sounded equally unstable. “That’s not true.”
“It is, and you know it. I’ve spent five years trying to get close to you. Five years, Bailey. If that doesn’t convince you how I feel about you, then I don’t know what else will.”
“I’ve never questioned how you feel about me,” she whispered.
“No,” he said bitterly. “I guess not. I guess you just didn’t want to admit that you might feel something for me too. Because I’m just a reckless, overprotective caveman—isn’t that right? Just another bully of a man who wants to have power over you, right?”
He grew sick at the notion that he might actually be speaking the truth. That Bailey truly lumped him in with the men from her past. Her abusive father. Her controlling ex.
“I’m not like them,” he choked out.
Her eyes widened.
“I’m not your father, and I’m not Daniels, and if you can’t bloody see that, then there’s no shot in hell of this ever working out.” His throat squeezed painfully. “But what am I even saying? We were never going to have a future, were we, Bailey?”
When all he got was silence, his heart cracked in two.
Sean took a breath, then clamped his lips together. Gathered the pieces of his shattered composure. “I’ll take the couch tonight,” he mumbled. “You sleep here.” He swallowed, but the lump in his throat only got bigger. “I . . . I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Sean.”
Her wobbly voice stopped him as he reached the door. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t want her to see the devastation he knew was etched into his face. “Yeah?”
“I . . .” He heard her shaky inhale. “I . . . yeah . . . I’ll see you in the morning.”
* * *
“Have you seen Sullivan?” D poked his head into Liam’s hotel room, an atypical flash of concern on his face.
Liam hoped his face didn’t convey how queasy he was feeling. But Christ, just the sound of Sullivan’s name twisted his insides and made him want to throw up.
He was a mess. Been that way all frickin’ day. And the fact that Sullivan hadn’t mentioned what had happened between them only made it worse. His teammate had passed the day resting and watching TV. Liam had spent it choking on wave after wave of panic.
He’d tried assuring himself that he’d just been helping a friend last night. Just a Good Samaritan who dispensed hand jobs to the injured. The frickin’ orgasm fairy.
Except the explanation didn’t hold much water. Good deeds were about giving to others without thinking about yourself. But Liam had been harder than steel last night, and if Sullivan had rolled over . . . if he’d so much as looked at Liam with even a trace of invitation . . . Christ. Liam knew damn well he would’ve done more than jack his friend off.
And that scared the crap out of him.
“Macgr
egor? Did you hear me? I can’t find Port.”
He swallowed his nausea and stumbled off the bed. “I thought he was with you.”
“He was, but when I got out of the shower he was gone.”
Shit. This wasn’t the time for Sully to pull one of his disappearing acts. Reilly and Bailey were coming by in the morning to discuss whatever big plan Sean was brewing.
“Did you check Isabel’s room?”
D nodded. “He’s not there. I called Reilly and the rookie, too, and they haven’t seen or spoken to him.”
“Did you check the hotel?”
“Not yet. Figured we could split up and do a sweep.”
Reluctance crammed inside Liam’s throat as he grabbed his shoulder holster from the kitchenette table. He strapped it on, threw a Windbreaker over his T-shirt, and followed D out the door. “You check the dining room and veranda. I’ll take the bar and lobby. Text if you find him. Otherwise, meet out front and we’ll sweep the area.”
“Sounds good.”
They went their separate ways once the elevator doors dinged open. Liam kind of hoped D would be the one to locate Sullivan. He hadn’t been able to look his teammate in the eye since the . . . incident. For fuck’s sake, the incidents were just piling up, weren’t they? And when you added them all up, you got one confusing clusterfuck Liam wasn’t equipped to deal with.
He was straight, damn it.
His breathing grew labored as he strode toward the entrance of the hotel bar. He was straight, yet every fiber of his being desperately wanted to . . . find out for sure, he supposed.
The thought made him falter in his steps. Why couldn’t he find out? Hell, college frat boys did it all the time. They fooled around with their buddies and—shit, what was that phrase he’d heard floating around Boston College? BUD? No, BUG. Bisexual until graduation.
He resisted the urge to rip his hair out by the roots. Jesus. What was he thinking? He wasn’t going to fool around with another man.
But . . . fuck, if he was interested in addressing this little confusion problem of his, Sullivan would be the best candidate for the task. They were friends. They trusted each other. They—