She touched my bloodied sleeve. “Hargut? Is he okay?”
I hoped she wouldn’t ask, and I considered lying to her. But in the end, I simply shook my head. Her face crumpled, and a sob ripped from her throat. I pulled her into my arms and held her as she cried.
Hargut had managed to catch up to the men who’d taken her and rammed their car off the freeway. By the time my guys got there, he was already bleeding out, but he’d ripped Sabrina from her kidnappers, leaving two bodies and an injured Russian in the median as shocked bystanders stared from their cars. My men had grabbed him and the surviving douchebag, racing back to the house before the cops showed up.
Lying on my front steps, Hargut tried to apologize for letting her get taken, even while I held my hands on the fatal wounds in his chest. I watched him take his last breath as Peter dragged the surviving Russian around the side of the house. I would end him here in the basement after David questioned him. He wouldn’t say shit. The Russians never did. But I would enjoy working out my anger on the cockbag.
“You sure you aren’t hurt?” I pulled Sabrina away and inspected her face.
“I’m sore, but I don’t remember the accident. I don’t know what happened. But Hargut was there. Hargut—” She choked on a sob, her beautiful blue eyes awash in tears as I pulled the blanket back and ran my hands down her torso, then her legs, checking for injuries.
She hissed as I pressed along her hip. “There.”
I popped the button on her jeans and unzipped them, then peeled them down to her thigh. A large purple bruise was spreading in a thick line down her side.
“I don’t think it’s broken.” I did my best to ignore the delicate pink lace of her panties. “Opal, get her some ice and painkillers.”
Opal rose and shuffled out.
I smoothed my hand over her soft skin, feeling around the bruise. “Anywhere else?”
“No.” She sniffled. “That one hurts the worst.”
Her tears affected me more than they should have. It took me back to an even darker time, one where she’d been traumatized so badly that she thought I was her savior. I wasn’t. I was just an asshole who happened to be in the right place at the right time to pretend to be the hero. It seemed like my luck was holding in that respect, because she was looking at me as if I were the only man on the planet that could keep her safe.
“Come here.” I welcomed her into my arms again.
She clung to me, her body shaking. “He watched out for me.”
“I know. He did his job.” I stroked my hand down her hair. “Shhh.”
“H-He has a daughter. Someone needs to tell her.”
“I’ll handle all that.” I turned her so she sat in my lap, and I leaned back against the headboard.
She nuzzled against my neck, her wet lashes tickling my skin. And just like it had been five years before, I was wrapped around her finger. I would do anything to stop her tears, to make her feel safe even though she already knew—far better than most people twice her age—how horrible this world could be.
“I’ve got you. Nothing will happen to you here.”
She nodded against me. “I know.”
I held her for long minutes as her tears died down. My mind was on overdrive the entire time, and I itched to kill whoever thought it was a good idea to try to steal her from me, though I had a pretty clear idea of who it was. Hargut had managed to describe the kidnappers—fucking Russians. But how did they know? Sabrina hadn’t been fifteen minutes from the house when they struck. There was only one conclusion. The rat was hard at work fucking up my life. Whoever it was, I intended to torture the fuck out of him. Let the Butcher take his time with all the Medieval shit he enjoyed, then I’d bring my A-game for the finale. Do some depraved bloodwork that would make the hardest man in the room want to blow his lunch all over the floor. That’s what happened to rats.
Opal brought ice and gave Sabrina some Oxys.
“Can you talk about it?” I asked once she’d had the pills in her system for a bit.
“His name is Dmitri.” A shudder ran through her body.
The head of the Bratva in Philly. Fucking fabulous. He was spearheading the efforts to blow my deal with the Irish. The fucker seemed to have a personal vendetta for me. After his move on Sabrina, the feeling was mutual.
I ran my hand up and down her back. “Did he say anything?”
“I knew him. He worked for my father. He said I was his doll. He said he ruined my father’s other toy. What did he mean? He wants to hurt me. He said he was going t-to—” Her voice hitched, and I shushed her and rubbed her back more as red-hot fury rushed through my veins.