Jagger (Broken Doll 2)

Naked, bound, and sliced up from head to toe—that was how I was going to die. From the sounds of it, whoever found me was certainly as bad as Cuchillo.

“Where is she? Goddammit!”

Because my ears were still ringing from the gunshots, the words sounded as if they were being spoken underwater, yet I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Jag.” The effort from speaking made me cough violently, my vocal cords so swollen I was unable to manage more than a whisper. “Jag.”

“Miri?” He was close. Oh my God. Either I was dead and in heaven or I was about to be saved.

The tears flowed harder.

“That motherfucking bastard!”

I looked up through blurry, tear-filled eyes. “Jag?” My voice was no more than a rough whisper.

“Baby, it’s okay.” Warm hands ran over my forehead and brushed away the moisture on my cheeks only to be replaced by more. “I’m here. I’m so sorry, Miri.”

“I-I…”

He bent over to murmur in my ear, comforting hands never leaving my face. “Shhhhh, don’t talk, doll. I’ve got you.” Jag straightened up, but his warm touch remained. “Someone bring me a goddamn blanket or sheet or something!”

I must have faded in and out of consciousness, because I woke to find myself free from the table, wrapped in a shirt that smelled like Jag—like home. Something heavier was thrown over me and next thing I knew, I was in Jag’s arms, pressed against his chest. I snuggled in close, reveling in the rapid beat of his heart against my cheek. Despite wanting to know what was going on, I was drained. The low vibrations that rumbled when Jag spoke lulled me right to sleep.

Jag

Exhaustion weighed down on me. Like Atlas, it felt as if the entire world was balanced on my shoulders. I struggled to keep my body going when lack of sleep and stress had depleted my energy and I was on the verge of collapsing. Miri was the only thing that kept me pushing through the fatigue. Weak, dehydrated, and horrifically abused, my beautiful doll was broken, and I wouldn’t rest until I made her whole again.

A quick rap on the door of the master bedroom, and an older man with wise brown eyes and confidence radiating from his stocky figure entered without waiting for my consent. My body tensed, ready to fight. Then I recognized the doctor I kept on retainer for emergencies that couldn’t be brought to the authorities’ attention and relaxed. The doc checked Miri last night after I called him from the car as I raced back to my house, scared shitless that my doll might not make it.

The doctor gave me a stiff nod before moving to Miri’s bedside. I leapt from the chair I had pulled up next to the bed. I needed to stay close to my girl all night, but was too afraid of hurting her to climb onto the mattress and hold her like I wanted to.

“Doc.” I acknowledged the older man as he unpacked items from his messenger bag with the efficiency of someone who had done this many times.

“Good morning, Boss. How did she do last night?” He fiddled with Miri’s IV drip, his smooth, practiced movements never faltering while he peppered me with questions about Miri’s condition.

“I don’t know, Doc. Okay, I guess.”

How the fuck do you answer a question like that? My girl was kidnapped, stolen right out of my arms, her skin sliced open over fifty times along with a deep graze from a bullet, and according to the doctor, raped by those fucking bastards.

Miri was doing better than me right now. She was sleeping soundly from the sedatives Doc had her on. Me? I was running on less than three hours of sleep per night since she disappeared and was nearly erupting into a violent fit from my need for revenge.

“Her vitals are strong.” The doctor ran his hands down the wounds on Miri’s arms, inspecting each one. “Everything is closing up nicely. No signs of infection. The cuts are small; most of them shouldn’t scar.”

“Good,” I snapped. “I don’t want her to have to be reminded of what that sick motherfucker did to her.”

The doctor glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “Her head has taken many hits. We don’t have an MRI, but I’m confident in saying she has a pretty serious concussion. If you’re lucky, your girl may not remember everything that happened to her.” With that, he packed up his instruments and slung his bag over his shoulder.

The doctor put his hand on my arm and looked into my eyes. “I’ll be back tomorrow unless you need me sooner. You have the medications and my number.”

“Yeah. I’m good. I’ll call if I need to. Thanks, Doc.”

I escorted the man out and closed the bedroom door. Dr. Marcus Abrams had worked for my organization on the down low for years. His younger brother was a lieutenant once, killed by a rival before I became Boss. When I took charge, I avenged his brother’s death and then some. The doc was so appreciative he would be loyal until the day he died.

I sagged against the door, my emotions welling up thick in my throat. I swallowed, trying to dislodge the tight lump to no avail. My chest constricted and my eyes burned. I sucked in a ragged breath and crossed the room, falling to my knees at Miri’s side. With my forehead pressed to the back of her hand, I succumbed to the fatigue, to the guilt from failing her, and the joy I felt from getting her back.

Then I did something I hadn’t done since I lost Rose.

I let myself feel. I mean really feel—anything and everything I held at bay all these years. The remnants of my cold, black heart shattered, the once empty space filling to the brim with love, slowly beating back to life. As the raw pain pumped through my veins for the first time in years, I broke down and cried. Seconds, minutes, hours later… I heard a soft sound.