Page 38 of Retaliation

With Scorpion by her side, they moved through the crowd.

As they finally stepped out into the cool night air, the noise and chaos of the arena fell away behind them. The chill of the evening kissed her skin, and she felt the tension begin to drain from her body, like a tightly wound spring slowly, ever so slowly, uncoiling leaving exhaustion in its wake.

TWELVE

Phillip walked Poison over to his bike. Shit, he’s never seen anyone so out of it. He saw it the moment she had stepped off the stage, and the crowd stormed her, overwhelming her. She looked like a deer staring into the barrel of a hunter’s rifle.

He impulsively flew down the stairs, pushing and bumping through the crowd to get to her. His boss would have his head for doing it a second time, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about his assignment, and he sure as fuck didn’t care what the consequences of his impulsiveness would be. All that mattered was getting her to take a normal breath again.

He halted abruptly, his hands gripping her shoulders with a gentle urgency, turning her to face him.

“Breathe, Little Viper,” he murmured, his voice laced with concern, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes, usually sharp and full of fire, were glazed over, staring blankly through him. Her breath was coming in quick, shallow gasps, like a bird trapped in a cage.

“Poison,” he said, his voice rising with the desperation he tried to keep at bay. “I need you to breathe for me. Please.” His fingers dug slightly into her shoulders as he shook her gently, trying to pull her back from wherever her mind had taken her. “Deep breaths, just like that,” he almost begged, the words coming out rough, betraying the helplessness clawing at his insides.

Seeing no other way, he pulled her into his arms, wrapping her in a protective embrace. Her body was stiff against him at first, her shallow breaths warm against his chest. He held her close, his hand stroking her hair, his touch as tender as he could manage. He whispered soft reassurances into her ear, anything to help guide her back to the present. Slowly, he felt her muscles begin to relax, her breathing evening out as she sagged against him, her forehead resting on his chest. When he felt her finally exhale deeply, he let out a breath of his own.

Gently, he eased her back to arm’s length, bending down so he could look her in the eyes. The blankness was gone, replaced by a flicker of awareness. “Good girl,” he whispered. “Now, did you drive here?”

She shook her head, and for the first time since he’d grabbed her, he felt a surge of gratitude for the simple act of her responding. It was a small sign that she was coming back to him. Without another word, he bent down and scooped her up as if she weighed nothing, carrying her over to his bike. He placed her on the back seat with the care one might use with something fragile and irreplaceable.

Rubbing the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he couldn’t shake the feeling of helplessness that gnawed at his gut. He hated it—hated feeling like there was nothing he could do to fix what was going on inside her.

He climbed onto the bike in front of her, reaching back to pull her arms around his waist. He held them there with one hand, ensuring she was. “Hold on, Little Viper.”

She tightened her grip around him, her cheek resting against his back, the warmth of her skin seeping through his jacket and shirt. It was a small comfort, but it was enough to ease some of the tension that had coiled tight within him.

With a roar, the engine came to life beneath them, and he took off into the night. The wind whipped past them as he sped through the city streets, but his focus was singular: getting her to the safety of her apartment.

He could feel her hold on him, steady and secure, and it reassured him more than he could put into words. As they approached her apartment, the world around them seemed to blur, the city lights fading into the background. All that mattered was her—getting her home, holding her close, and being there.

Killing the engine, he dismounted and helped her to the ground. With his arm around her waist, he walked her to the building. Fire spread through his body as she leaned into him for support.

The elderly doorman swung the door open with a swiftness that belied his years, his eyes immediately locking onto her pale face. Without a word, he hurried over to press the elevator button, his concern etched deep in the lines of his weathered face. Phillip gave him a brief, grateful smile as they stepped into the elevator, but his mind was elsewhere, his attention fixated on the panel of buttons. His brows knit together in confusion—he realized, too late, that he had no idea which floor her apartment was on.

Sensing his uncertainty, the doorman leaned into the elevator, as he pressed the button for the third floor. “Apartment three-eleven,” he rasped.

The elevator doors began to close, but the doorman swiftly reached out, holding them open. With a serious expression, the old man fished a small key from his pocket and handed it over, his hand lingering for a moment as if reluctant to let it go.

Phillip stared at the key, turning it over in his hand. “How?” he asked, the single word heavy with unspoken questions.

“I always keep her spare key separate over the weekends,” the doorman explained, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve seen things, but never this.”

“Thank you,” Phillip said, his voice tight with emotion as he pulled Poison closer, feeling her lean into him. The doorman’s words carried a weight that Phillip wasn’t ready to unpack, but the man’s trust and foresight weren’t lost on him.

“Just take care of her. She’s a good one,” the doorman added.

“I will,” he promised as the doors finally slid shut, cutting off the doorman’s worried gaze. The elevator began its slow ascent.

He tightened his grip on her, feeling the slight tremble in her body as they rose. There was so much he didn’t know, so much he wanted to understand, but for now, his focus was on getting her home, getting her safe.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened on the third floor. He would get her inside, make sure she was okay, and then—only then—would he let himself breathe. The promise he’d made to the doorman echoed in his mind as he stepped into the hallway, his arm still securely around her.

They stepped onto the third floor, and he led her to her apartment, unlocking the door and helping her inside.

As they entered, a surge of helplessness washed over him again, knowing he couldn’t erase what she felt. Yet, as he guided her through the threshold, he glimpsed a flicker of color returning to her cheeks, a subtle sign that perhaps the worst was behind her.

Setting her down gently on the couch, he wrapped her in a plush blanket, a feeble attempt to shield her from the lingering chill of the night.

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