Page 19 of Sinner's Vows

“I have her,” I say in passing. “She’ll live.”

I lengthen my strides even more, eager to get out of the warehouse before Stephano finishes Franco off. I may be a death dealer, yet it doesn’t mean I enjoy watching the shit show happening, and it’s the last thing the woman in my arms should see. We’re at the closed garage door, waiting for one of the bodyguards to open it, when the crush of metal through bone cracks through the space.

At the sound, she stiffens in my arms, pulling up with her hand around my neck, pressing deeper into me. By instinct, I hold her tighter, hugging her close. Warm tears wet my skin where she’s hidden her face in my neck, and now a suppressed sob racks through her body.

“Shhh,” I murmur, wanting to soothe her, not quiet her. She’s hardly made a sound since I found her, and it would probably be good for her to finally cry her heart out. “It’s done.”

Outside, one of our SUVs is on standby, and a bodyguard opens the back door. When I try to get her into a seat, she only clams up closer in my arms, unwilling to let go. She’s overwrought, I get it. And in this storm, I’m the only safe harbor she knows. I contain the huff that wants to escape. I’m more the death-inducing sharp reefs all around the lighthouse than the beam of salvation.

“Sweetheart,” I mutter under my breath. It will be safer if she’s strapped in. I don’t know her name, and I don’t want anybody to realize she’s fully conscious. It will be safer if nobody knows she’s witnessed everything that happened in the warehouse.

I close my eyes at the feel of her warm breath against my skin. She’s seeking comfort, safety, an anchor. Everything women usually seek from me. Everything I can never give her.

“I’ll hold her,” I say to Gus, my bodyguard, and he just nods but goes to the front passenger seat and pulls the seat as far to the front as possible.

I manage to settle in the back with her on my lap. It’s only when we slip into traffic fifteen minutes later that she finally relaxes in my arms and her hand inches down to my chest.

“You’re safe, sweetheart. You’re really safe now,” I vow, and like a real dumbass, I seal my promise with a brush of my lips along her hairline. “You’re going to be fine, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

10

ARIANA

His arms are gone. Without the warmth of his body and his rhythmic breathing which soothed me, I’m cold. Metal cold. Voices. So reassuring…but I sink back into indifference. Without his soft voice and tender touch, I don’t care to be here.

When I open my eyes, I wake up for the first time in weeks without pain, then take in the drip standing close, the soft, clean linen covering my body.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says.

A man stands and steps up to my bed. I blink. My guardian angel. Protecting me. Probably with me in that dungeon all this time, keeping me going. Protecting me from Franco.

Franco.

Shards of memory pierce my mind, and I gasp.

“Easy, sweetheart,” the man says, his hand on my arm, with just the right amount of pressure to reassure me. “It’s all done. They extracted the whole bullet and closed the wound. You lucked out. No damage. You can even eat. You’re going to be fine.”

I exhale a slow breath, trying to wrap my head around the memories infiltrating my mind. Bullet? Wound? Nothing makes sense right now.

A nurse walks into the room, and he steps aside. They don’t talk, but I watch him watch her as she checks my vitals.

“Are you in any pain?” the nurse asks.

“No.” My lips are dry, but I don’t feel thirsty. I eye the drip, the brain fog slowly lifting.

This isn’t Franco’s dungeon. There was a plane, and then…a warehouse. A lance of fire burning my gut. Falling. Then this man with his soft touch and even gentler voice.

“Doctor will be here soon to check in on you.” She smiles at me, nods at the man, and walks out.

For a few seconds, it’s quiet, then I shift my hand in his direction. As if he reads my mind, he takes my hand in his, his thumb brushing my knuckles.

“Where am I?”

Clearly, this isn’t Hell. It doesn’t strike me as Heaven, either, even if my guardian angel is standing there, tall and handsome, wingless but just as protective as I remember him in that warehouse.

It feels like ages ago now, a warped reality, what with his touch that’s languid and gentle, each brush of his thumb over my delicate skin in sync with my breathing.

“You’re in a private clinic in Boston. You’re safe here. I’m Dominic Scalera. What’s your name?”

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