Page 28 of Fury

I scowl. “I don’t have to do anything. I’m calling an ambulance and the police.”

“That will land you in deeper waters. Plus . . .” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

“What?” I growl, sensing it’s not good news.

“He’s going to keep using you. Chevy said he’s got shit on you now, and he’ll use that to make you do what he wants.”

I stare wide-eyed. “What shit?”

“I don’t know. Can you think of anything?”

I shake my head, fighting the tears that are threatening to fall again. “Why is he doing this to me?”

“I’m guessing his ego is bruised. I’ll think of something.” He presses a chaste kiss to my head before heading back into the kitchen, leaving me to follow.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Fury

Iwait patiently while Xanthe sews Logan’s wound. He works security at the fight club, and things got out of hand tonight. There’re always some fuckers thinking they can take on the world, and Logan is a big bastard, so it took a few of them to bring him to the ground, then they set on him like a pack of fucking animals. By the time we got there, they were gone, and he was bleeding out.

“Spare room?” asks Chevy, and Xanthe looks fit to burst.

“Absolutely not,” she snaps.

“He needs bed rest,” the doctor confirms, looking at her.

“This is my home,” she yells.

“And he will need a nurse to keep an eye on him for the next few hours,” the doctor continues.

“Which is why we should take him to hospital.”

“And say what,” snaps Chevy, “that you and this doctor you’ve never met cut him open on your kitchen table and performed an operation?”

“It was an emergency,” she argues. “I have a duty of care if it’s an emergency.”

“Did you check the doctor’s credentials?” he asks, smirking.

She glances helplessly at the doctor, who looks away. “Didn’t you check them?”

“I don’t need to,” says Chevy. “I already know he’s been struck off.”

“What?” she screeches.

Chevy points to Logan. “And he’s security at an underground fight that should not have taken place. And he ended up on your kitchen table. It looks to me like you’re running in the wrong circles.”

“Fuck you,” she hisses.

“So, spare room?” he asks again.

She ties off the last stitch and goes over to the sink to wash her hands. “We’ll find it,” I say.

“Take another drink, Logan,” says Chevy, holding the bottle of whiskey to his lips. He takes a few gulps, and we take a side each and ease him up off the table.

We help him up the stairs, and I let Chevy open each door until he finds the spare room. Once Logan is lying in the bed, we head out and leave the doctor to set up the drip again. “You’ll need to stay here,” says Chevy.

“Okay,” I reply, nodding. At least I’ll have a reason to be here with Xanthe.

---