Page 49 of Heart of a Devil
Twenty-Six
SEBASTIAN
Ican’t believe I let her leave like that. Or how quickly we went from normal to nuclear. And I can’t believe I’m stuck in fucking traffic, that she’s not answering her phone, and that she ran from me. I’m worried, pissed off, and sad, and those emotions are taking turns at the wheel of my brain.
Samantha and Gabriel got stuck in the same traffic as me—bloody London is forever being dug up and messed around—and didn’t end up collecting Max until after eight. I stayed as normal as I could during the handoff. The last thing I wanted was to drag them into my drama.
It’s not a good look, moaning to your daughter about your girlfriend. Especially when your girlfriend is basically the same age as her. They stayed for a quick coffee, chatted about their day, and then it took an everlasting age to pack away all of Max’s gear and wave them off. As soon as they were gone, I tried her phone again, and predictably enough, I got the same result as I had the last fifty bloody times.
Checking her cameras felt like a violation of her privacy, but I did it anyway. Not that it helped—her coat and bag were there, but she must have been in the bedroom. I have no clue if she’s in there crying, stabbing a Seb-shaped voodoo doll, or fuckingsomeone else. No. That’s not fair. She wouldn’t do that, no matter how angry she was. That’s more the kind of dick move I’d pull.
Not knowing is making me crazy, and I drive like an absolute cunt all the way there, beeping, bullying, and flashing my lights at anyone who dares get in my way. I finally escape the bottleneck that sprung up between my place and hers and pull into the underground parking garage. It took me over an hour to get here, and now I am, I need to calm down. I can’t go up to see her still raging. I want to talk to her, not fight with her. It’s important to find out why she reacted like she did, why she ran, and sort it all out. I hate this feeling that there’s distance between us, and I also hate that I seem to have turned into a giant pussy whose sense of wellbeing is dependent on a woman.
I notice her car—it’s hard not to—still parked in one of the bays and jog up the stairs to her place on the top floor. I have excess energy to burn and don’t fancy being confined in the lift with strangers. I might scare them to death.
As soon as I reach the landing, my blood freezes in my veins. The floor is scattered with photos haphazardly thrown to the ground. Every last one of them is a picture of Lauren. Lauren at work, at the gym, in a café. At my place. None of them look like they were taken with her knowledge or permission. Something is very fucking wrong.
I fight down my panic and stride toward her apartment. I should probably listen against the door. Find out what is going on before I rush in like a fool.
Except I am a fool when it comes to Lauren. The woman I love is in there, and she’s in trouble. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to help her, so I kick the door in. My heart is racing, and I’m terrified of what I’m going to find inside. Did McIverson find a way to strike back? Has Volkov discovered that she’s helping his wife escape? Is Diego Torres even in Istanbul?They’re all threats to her. Any one of them could take her away from me, and if they do, I will lose my heart, my joy, everything that makes my life worth living.
The door slams back hard in its frame, rattling on its hinges, and I’m ready to fight, to kill if I need to. I race inside and call her name.
Maybe I should have gone for stealth, but I’m too pumped up for that. Too desperate. “Lauren,” I yell again as I thunder past the bedroom and the bathroom, kicking doors open as I go. Both rooms are empty.
“I’m in here,” she shouts back from the lounge. I fly toward her, my heavy boots slamming onto the wooden floors, heart in my mouth. She’s talking. She’s here, and she’s alive. All of that is good.
I burst into the living room and stop dead in my tracks. She’s standing in the middle of the room, her face white and drawn. Her blouse is open, revealing her lacy bra, her breath coming in agitated gusts that make her chest heave. A chunk of her scalp shows red where a patch of her hair has been ripped out at the roots and she has a busted lip. She stares at me, her eyes wide and fixed, shock setting in. The skin of her chest and her pale cheeks are splashed with blood, and her hands tremble uncontrollably.
Disturbing as all of that is, she doesn’t look as bad as the other person in the room. The man is tied to one of the dining chairs and has a gag in his mouth. There are cuts and bruises on his face, and he’s out for the count or dead. I can’t tell which, and I don’t care right now. All that matters is he’s no longer a danger.
I run over to Lauren and pull her into my arms. With trembling hands, I stroke her hair carefully back from her face and examine every inch of her for damage. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Are you injured? Do you need a doctor?”
Her hands flutter on my back like butterflies, as though she doesn’t have the ability to keep them still or to grab hold of me. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
I run my hands gently over her shoulders and fasten up her blouse. I have no idea how far he went before she defeated him, my warrior woman, but there will be time to talk about that later. Using my T-shirt, I wipe her hands clear of blood and hold her shaking fingers in mine. “I think you’re okay, Lauren. Shall we go and get you cleaned up, and you can tell me what happened?”
She nods and stares at the guy tied to the chair. “What about him? Have I… Have I killed him? Oh god, please say I haven’t killed him.”
I leave her side long enough to check his pulse. His eyes are bright red and swollen, and his face has taken a beating. A couple of teeth litter the pool of blood at his feet. The wound below his ribs looks to be the likely culprit, but when I check it out, I find that it’s not too deep.
Personally, I don’t give a shit if the cunt dies or not—but she does, and that’s what matters. I grab a towel from the kitchen, wad it up, and shove it roughly against the wound. She points to a small backpack, and I find a roll of black tape inside. I bite a strip off to secure the makeshift bandage and add one over his mouth as well before checking the zip ties on his wrists.
Satisfied that he’s going nowhere, I go back to Lauren, who is trying to pull herself together, but the shock is still wreaking havoc. She takes a step toward me on wobbling legs and collapses into my arms. I scoop her up, kiss her forehead, and carry her through to the bathroom. “It’s all going to be okay, sweetheart. He’s not dead, don’t worry. We can sort all of this out together. Do you trust me?”
She clings to my shoulders and manages a shaky nod. “I trust you. I shouldn’t have left you. I’m so sorry. I should have been more vigilant…”
“No. Enough of that. No self-blame allowed here tonight. Is that Diego Torres in there?” I’ve seen photos of the guy, but his face is no longer recognizable. She nods weakly, and I keep hold of her as I turn the shower on, getting the temperature right for her.
“I thought so. Well, whatever you did to the fucker, he deserved it and probably more. He takes the blame, not you. Hell, Jax and Alejandro can have some too for believing he was in Istanbul. And me, I’ll take my share as well—I should never have let you leave like that. But you? You don’t get any of it, you understand?”
After getting her settled on the tiles, I position the spray so the warm water sluices away the blood, keeping her face held up and her eyes locked on mine. I don’t want her looking down. I don’t want her seeing the bright red evidence of violence swirling down the drain. My boots get kicked to the side, and I get in with her and help her out of her clothes. “I’m going to run you a bath, sweetheart. Nice and hot, lots of bubbles, just how you like it.”
She nods and closes her eyes, letting me undress her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so weak, so subdued, and I hate it. I’d rather she try to slap me in the face or knee me in the balls. From the state Torres is in, it seems she used all the fight she had on him.
When she’s naked, I see more damage—scratches on her arms and bruises where it looks like she’s been kicked in the side and the back. Biting back a growl, I run the bath, adding her favorite jasmine-scented bath soak and whipping up the bubbles with my hand. I’m soaking wet myself, but I don’t give a shit.
Once the bath is perfect, I go back to the shower. She holds her arms up to me, waiting to be picked up, and whatever calluses were left on my bitter old heart melt into oblivion. Sheis my woman. My perfect, crazy girl. She is battered and bruised and brilliant, and I will never leave her side again.
