Chapter 3
The SUV was quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the muted hiss of tires on wet asphalt. I kept my eyes forward, but the dark tint on the window gave me her reflection, it was just enough to watch without making her skittish.
She was small against me, fragile in a way that made my hands tighten without thought. Her wrists were raw, skin split and scabbed from iron. Her lip was torn, a thin crust of dried blood catching in the dim light. And beneath all that damage, there was something in her posture, her shoulders were straight, her chin slightly lifted even now after the ordeal she must have gone through, that told me she hadn’t been broken. They’d tried but they’d failed.
I felt the fury rise slow, deliberate, the way it always did before I killed. And I made a silent promise, right there in the dark that every man who touched her, every man who put a hand, a chain, a filthy thought on her, he would die a slow excruciating death. I’d make sure his last moments were long enough to understand exactly why.
She didn’t speak, didn’t ask where we were going. She sat against me in silence, the faint, uneven rhythm of her breathing brushing over my chest. I didn’t know if it was fear, exhaustion, or calculation keeping her quiet, but either way, it told me enough. She was smart. Smart enough to know questions could wait until she had the strength for answers.
Or maybe she was just too tired to fight anymore. I’d seen that kind of exhaustion before in soldiers pulled from enemy cages, in survivors whose bodies were running on nothing but stubbornness. It burned like a low, steady flame, and it told me she’d survived this long because she had fight in her, even if it was buried under the weight of what had been done to her.
And that fight… it wouldn’t be wasted.
Either way, her future wasn’t hers to navigate alone anymore because the second I’d stepped into that room, the second I’d seen her chained to the wall with her chin lifted like she was daring someone to break her, something in me had shifted. The Irish hadn’t just taken a woman; they’d taken something they had no right to touch.
They didn’t know it yet, but by chaining her, they’d signed their own death warrants. She didn’t know it yet, but she was mine to protect now. And I don’t give back what’s mine.
Twenty minutes later, the SUV turned down the long, gated drive to my estate. The iron gates swung open on silent motors, revealing the mansion in full. Three stories of black stone and glass, the facade broken by high arched windows that threw warm gold light into the night. Ivy crawled along one wing, trimmed and deliberate, a veneer of civility over a fortress. The place was built for comfort, but more importantly it was built to withstand a siege.
I carried her inside, straight past the grand foyer with its marble floors and high vaulted ceiling, up the sweeping staircase to one of the guest suites. Not just any suite but the one nearest my own.
The doctor was already waiting, a tall man in a three-piece suit that looked more suited for a boardroom than an exam room.His dark hair was slicked back with precision, his shoes polished to a mirror shine, and his eyes were a sharp, knowing that carried the faint glow of someone who’d seen centuries pass. His pupils were a touch too wide, an easy tell anyone who knew what to look for, that he was a Vampire.
And not just any vampire, he’d been tending to the Blood Mafia for longer than most mortals had been alive. If he was here, it was because his word was as good as law. He didn’t waste time with introductions, but there was something in the faint quirk of his mouth as his gaze flicked from me to Sorcha.
“I’ve just come from your brother’s estate,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying that quiet authority of a man who dealt in both blood and secrets. “Roman and Layla’s child was born; you are now an uncle to a baby boy. He is strong like his father, healthy. A prince, in every sense.”
For a second, my jaw eased. The news hit something warm inside me, rare enough to catch me off guard. Layla had been through hell, and Roman… Roman deserved something pure after the war we’d been fighting.
“That’s good,” I said, and I meant it. “A healthy heir for our kind.”
The doctor gave a single, short nod, then turned his focus back to the matter at hand. “Now, let’s see to yours.”
The warmth in my chest cooled back into steel. My brother had his family safe at home. Mine was sitting in front of me, bruised and bleeding, and I wasn’t about to rest until she was whole again.
“Put her here,” he said, gesturing to the bed.
I set her down gently, my hands lingering a second longer than needed before I stepped back. My jaw locked as the doctor began his examination.
I catalogued every mark as he worked. The mottled bruises along her ribs, the purple-black line blooming down the length of her thigh, the faint, telltale track marks on her arm from tranquilizers, likely to keep her docile. Every injury was another entry in my mental ledger; each one marked for payment in blood.
She flinched when the doctor pressed along her side to check for breaks, and my hands curled into fists so tight I could feel the leather of my gloves creak. My chest burned with the kind of fury that demanded violence, my mind already conjuring the faces of the men who’d laid hands on her. I needed to kill someone. Now. But I couldn’t, not here. Not while she was looking at me, and not when losing control would only remind her of the monsters she’d just been pulled from.
The doctor’s voice stayed even, professional, but I didn’t miss the slight tightening of his mouth as he finished his exam. “Nothing broken,” he said, “but you have bruised ribs. You’re also suffering from malnourishment and dehydration. The wrists will heal without scarring if treated properly.” He glanced up at me as he continued, “She’s exhausted. She needs rest and food before anything else.”
I waited until he packed his case and reached the door before stepping into his path. “Everything,” I said. My tone left no room for misunderstanding. I wanted every detail. No omissions.
He met my eyes, not flinching. There was no hesitation when he answered. “They didn’t… go that far. But she’s been handled rough. She’s lucky.”
Lucky.
The word hit like a shard of ice in my chest. Lucky meant she could have been broken in the worst possible way. Lucky meant the men I was already planning to kill had considered it. Lucky meant that, for reasons I couldn’t yet comprehend, they’d stopped short.
It didn’t matter. Luck was a fickle thing, and I wasn’t about to rely on it again.
“Get out,” I said quietly. He nodded, turned and left without another word.
When I turned back, Sorcha was watching me, those eyes were wild, defiant even now as she met mine. I approached and then sat on the edge of the bed, close enough for her to see the promise in my expression.
