Page 68 of Lesson In Forgiveness

If they were coming here, if some good Samaritan had called the cops, she didn’t have time for elaborate kills. She didn’t have enough energy left to outrun the police, and there was no choice but to find somewhere secure to hunker down and heal for a few days before heading to Ireland.

Thoroughly pissed she was being cheated out of some much needed playtime, she muttered sulkily under her breath as she moved from asshole to fuckwit to jackass, giving them a far too easy death by rolling them onto their fronts and opening their throats.

“What the fuck are you?” the last one demanded, trying to crawl away from her.

“Something you really shouldn’t have fucked with,” was her flat reply.

When she was done, the sirens were getting far too close. She stumbled over to the pouffe and retrieved the security box, wedging it into her suitcase. It took her a minute to find a long, lightweight jacket that wouldn’t look out of place in the heat; she needed something to conceal what injuries she could.

Leaving five dead bodies behind, she grabbed her suitcase and shut the door behind her. There was nothing she could do about her DNA being at the scene—while she’d always been careful in that regard, there was too much of her blood all over the room, her fingerprints on the weapons, probably a few hairs scattered around for the crime scene techs to find.

The cops would tie her to the name she’d used to rent the room, which meant yet another alias was burned, but by God, it was fucking worth it, knowing Mangle would never get the opportunity to terrorize and rape another woman ever again.

Tucking her hands into the sleeves of the jacket, she hoped she wasn’t leaving too much of a blood trail in her wake. She navigated the stairs with care, feeling a little lightheaded as she descended. The heat from outside punched into her when she opened the door, but she forged ahead, squinting into the bright sunlight.

The sirens were drawing ever closer, echoing off the buildings.

Hurrying to the SUV, Tabitha threw the suitcase onto the back seat. She slid gingerly into the driver’s seat, enclosing herself into the safety of the vehicle, and while her body still hummed with the effects of the adrenaline rush, pulled out into traffic as a cop car screamed to a halt outside the building.

It was a close call, she mused, but she’d had closer.

The question now was, where the hell did she go? Most hotels and motels would report her to the cops or call the EMTs if she showed up looking like… well, like she’d been a few rounds with a gang of assholes.

The hospital was a hell fucking no, for a number of reasons.

There wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance she was going near her brother’s place or asking Atticus for help.

The only place she wanted to be was the one place she couldn’t go.

So she just drove.

Chapter Eight

Grit

It didn’t take an idiot to work out he’d pushed her into running.

Grit paced the aisle of Evander’s private jet as it flew toward Phoenix. He’d been in the air for almost ninety minutes, and he’d spent the entire time rewinding the night before over and over in his head, trying to pinpoint the exact time she’d chosen to make her escape.

In between those thoughts, he was in contact with Jasper, Atticus, and Anarchy as they kept him updated with whatever they could find.

His hands were tied until he was back on the ground, and it was incredibly emasculating to leave Tabitha’s fate in the care of other people until he got home.

Served him right for asking her for so much, Grit thought bitterly. The note she’d left had been brief, but he felt the emotion in it. She honestly believed she wasn’t capable of love, but perhaps if he hadn’t been so hasty in trying to show her she had nothing to be afraid of with him, he could’ve proved her wrong.

She had a big heart, one he didn’t doubt could love as fiercely as she fought, but she’d locked it down tight, determined not to let a single dent threaten her solitary existence.

He checked his watch, impatient to start tracking her down.

Even as he was flying to Phoenix, Atticus was dispatching another security team to cover Elias—at Grit’s request. Just because the hit was on Tabitha’s head now didn’t mean Elias wasn’t at risk, and Grit wasn’t taking any chances.

He needed to be at headquarters, helping to track Tabitha, and ready to go after her at a moment’s notice. He knew damn well she was setting her sights on Ireland, but he had no idea if she was planning on taking the scenic route, popping off a few bad guys on her way, or going straight for the jugular.

The need to find her, to protect her, went deeper than a simple dominant instinct to keep the female safe. No, he was at a point where it felt like his entire future hinged on her safety, her survival.

Tabitha was no longer just a mission, a woman to keep locked down until the threat passed. She wasn’t a crazy assassin, an annoyance, a royal pain in his ass—fuck, who was he kidding? Yes, she was all three of those and more, but the crux of the matter was she belonged to him.

To him, with him.

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