And is still alive.
“Should we call off the search and regroup?” Letterman’s voice creeps into my manic mind.
I squint with a malevolent outlook, a miserable fool hoping to sense her dynamic presence, to hear her divine Irish accent cloaked in desire and to know the touch of her skin all over again. My stomach twists and refuses to stop churning.
“No. We won’t stop looking until she’s back where she belongs. My wife is a fighter,” I grit out, knowing she’s unlike any other woman I’ve encountered. “Every second counts.”
I have to believe my feisty wife could escape danger. She owns determination and is a fucking Souza by nature. Always was. The whisper of something less than a successful rescue mission isn’t worth thinking about. I’ll set the city alight and watch it burn if she’s not by my side by sunrise.
“Dré!” Reno’s boots batter the tiled floor as he runs to me. “I think they’ve found her. I just took a call.”
I toss the tumbler aside, uncaring for the mess of broken glass and unfinished amber liquid. Checking for the reloaded gun holstered snug to my hip, I rebuild my posture and brace for her coordinates.
“Where is she?” The words grind between my teeth.
“A blond-haired girl carrying a biker helmet was downstairs in the lobby, claiming to be Sinéad. The guy at reception asked if he should let her in. I confirmed she was wearing a wig tonight. Security is bringing her up.”
My pulse turns erratic and my body pivots to face the door at the same time as it opens. And there she is, escorted by two armed guards who pause a few steps behind.
She’s a warrior returning home from battle.
My breathtaking wife.
Blue-eyed and brave. Tangles of platinum-blond hair spill over narrow bronzed shoulders and long, lean legs, one of them moving stiffly until she stops a few yards away. Smudged mascara thickens her lash line and the old bruising I knew to be on her once alabaster jaw has resurfaced. She blinks at me—part trepidation, part repose. Clutched to her bare stomach is my glossy black helmet, reflecting her bedraggled appearance.
Our connection crackles through my muscles like electricity, her power over me stronger than gravity. My eyes are all over her, checking for signs of injury—or blood.
Goosebumps scatter my spine when she licks her parted lips in preparation to speak. “I’m so sorry, Dré…” She draws her lower lip between her teeth for a second and then continues to whisper, “They shot up your favorite motorcycle.”
I unstick my boots and march in her direction. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head. My blood pumps faster. A concoction of fury-entangled relief makes every heavy footfall akin to a savage thunderstorm. She’s standing here, virtually holding me by the balls with her tomboy style and striking looks, yet she’s the one apologizing. There’s no mention of the gunmen who’d put her life in danger or the obvious crash she was involved in, not even recognition of the godforsaken hours I’d endured in her absence.
For the first time in my lawless life, a woman has capsized my very existence until I was nothing more than blood and bone, pain and fear.
I’m utterly lost where this bombshell is concerned.
Her nostrils flare the closer I get, a telltale sign of faltering bravado. From every step I take in my expensive boots to each purposeful stride clad in designer dark wash jeans, I feel raw and exposed, as if she’s stripped the clothes from my back.
The crystal-blue eyes staring up at me, although as brilliant as the ocean, don’t hold the allure of those turquoise-colored irises that usually haunt me. The wig disguising her Irish gypsy bloodline doesn’t deserve to wear the invisible crown she’s earned during a death-defying escapade.
I fight the savage urge to rip the blond strands off her pretty little head, flush out the lenses, and scrub her bronzed skin until she returns to the uniqueness that I’m obsessed with.
A low snarl slips past my dry lips, all my saliva drained and my mouth dry. The guards quietly exit, moving outside of the penthouse to man the entrance.
Her gaze doesn’t break. She ignores the soldiers who’d taken over the kitchen island with maps and iPads, nor does she hunt out Reno, who’s calling off the search party. We just stare at each other amid the bustle of voices. For the longest moment, I’m painfully aware of what she means to me and how our relationship has become so much more. Our bond never diminished, and our connection would forever be felt.
Rather than lashing out for harm or control, I snatch the helmet and chuck it out of sight.
“I’ll have a replacement motorcycle delivered in a few days.”
But I’d never be able to replace her.
In a beat, I wrap my arms around her dainty shoulders to pin her biceps by her sides. I hold her fragile body next to mine as the most precious possession I’ve ever owned.
“You okay, baby?”
“I am now,” she whispers into my chest.
