Page 10 of Savage King

His warning only makes me do exactly that. We are in the middle of what appears to be a giant warehouse. High industrial lights illuminate the scene; crates are stacked on all sides, and dead bodies—so many dead bodies—litter the ground, surrounded by blood and gore.

Men, all wearing suits, move around, spreading containers full of gasoline over the crates, the ground, and the bodies. The smell of gasoline is already permeating the air, making me dizzy as my empty stomach churns with acid. All the while, Antonio strides through it like a king surveying his conquered land, barely sparing a glance at the dead.

One hanger door stands open, allowing in cool night air. As he carries me out and toward a massive black SUV, I take a deep breath and stare at the darkened sky. A sky I never thought I'd see again. Fresh air I never thought I'd breathe in again. I worry I'm not out of the woods yet, but I'm outside and alive, and that's all that matters to me right now.

A man opens the SUV's back door for us, and Antonio surprises me by keeping me in his arms when he sits down instead of simply depositing me on the seat. For a moment, I consider resisting and running, but that thought is short-lived. My body is aching in places I never thought could hurt, my legs are tired and trembling, and I doubt I'd even be able to stand on them, let alone run.

There is also the lure of his warm body, the steady rise and fall of his chest—it’s the first solid thing I’ve had to hold onto since this nightmare began.

"I have a doctor waiting for you at the house, Scarlet. You might not believe me, but you're safe." He reiterates.

I'm too tired to argue, even though I know it's a lie. As long as I'm in the hands of the mafia, I’m not safe. Still, I lean my head against his chest, close my eyes, and let myself believe in the lie for now. Because even if Antonio DeLuna isn’t my savior, he’s the only thing keeping mealive.I haven't been able to gauge time since I was abducted. It's dark outside, but that could meananything from six o'clock at night to six o'clock in the morning. For the first time since this ordeal began, I just let myself be while I drift in and out of consciousness. Every time I come to, I'm still in his arms.

I rouse myself enough when the car slows to peek out the window and watch in astonishment as we drive by a large iron gate. Gravel crunches under the tires. It's too dark to see much through the tinted windows, but I make out trees, many, many trees, as if we're driving through a forest. It feels like we're moving for another five miles or longer before the light ahead of us awakens my curiosity. The mansion we're approaching is like something out of a movie. Whitewashed stones make up the walls, while the roof is a darker color. Several chimneys protrude from it, and an honest-to-God, four-story tower is attached to the left.

Warm light spills from countless windows. It looks like something out of a fairy tale—more like a castle than a mansion.

The car stops, and Antonio carries me out and up several stone stairs flanked on both sides by layered garden beds. Ivy and moss have overgrown most of the half walls.

One of his men sprints by us and opens the large, two-panel doors of the entrance—grand entrance would be a better word. Two sets of staircases wind up toward the upper floor, decorated in wrought iron and flanked by expensive-looking paintings on the walls.

Antonio takes me up the right staircase and down a hallway, passing several doors before he opens the one straight ahead. We enter what looks like a bedroom. Decorated in dark browns and greens, it has an unmistakable masculine touch; I wonderif it’s his? I would have taken more of the room in, but I'm exhausted.

"Is this the patient?" A stranger's voice rouses my curiosity enough to cause me to lift my head and stare into the face of an older, grandfatherly man.

"Doc," Antonio greets him.

Antonio puts me down on the bed, and the man approaches. He takes my chin between his thumb and pointer finger. His touch is soft and gentle, nothing compared to how the other men manhandled me… earlier? Days ago?

"Hmm, hmm," the man grumbles. "The bruises on her cheek will lessen, as you well know. Where else is she hurt?"

Before Antonio can answer, I turn my shoulder toward the doctor. "He cut me there."

I didn't expectto be this affected by her. But from the moment I walk down the stairs and my eyes land on her, something shifts inside me. Seeing her strung up like a piece of meat at a butcher's shop fills me with an inexplicable fury. A different fury than when Carlos killed my dad. That fury runs through my veins like ice water, patient and waiting for the right moment to strike. The fury I feel on her behalf is hot like lava and all-consuming. It confuses the hell out of me.

She is nothing but a pawn. The only reason I'm even here is to ensure her father sends Carlos to prison. Yet, when I scoop her up and she leans her head against my shoulder, it feels right.

My men are busy setting up the warehouse to make it look like a fire broke out—an unfortunate accident. The woman in my arms has no idea, but right now, one of my men is taking thecorpse of another woman down into the basement. Carlos will not only think that Scarlet is dead, but he'll also be busy bribing cops and the fire department to keep them from mentioning or investigating the find of a woman strung up in his warehouse.

The car is waiting outside for us, and again, I surprise myself by not simply putting her into a seat but keeping her on my lap.She is a pawn, I remind myself.Exactly, a very valuable pawn, so we're keeping her safe. I like that argument. I can get fully behind it. It makes more sense than me actually liking the way she clings to me or how her body feels pressed against mine.

I like tall blondes who giggle and think the highlight of their day is sucking my cock. Not damsels in distress. They are too much work and require too much time.

Yet, the entire drive back to my house, I can't stop myself from studying her features; I stare at her long eyelashes, her curved brows, and note how her forehead is wrinkled even now. My stomach knots and tightens at the sight of her bruised face. I'll make them pay for that, with blood and pain.

Her lips, currently drawn down in a frown, are full and luscious, and the way her nose slightly tips up makes me want to touch it with the tip of my finger. Touch it with my finger? What the hell is wrong with me?

I shake my head at myself; I have much more pressing matters to attend to than this wounded… bird.

Despite all that, I carry her straight tomybedroom, not one of the guest suites, and refuse to think about it.

Doc is already waiting for me, and I deposit Scarlet on the bed. Once she’s there, he checks her bruised face, which sendsanother pulse of anger through me, and then she shows us her back.

This isn’t the first knife wound I’ve seen, but this one fills me with murderous rage. My fingers curl into fists; the need to hurt someone claws at my insides. Scarlet’s skin—so fucking soft, milky, and perfect—should have never been marred like this. It’s like some puto vandalized a masterpiece and defaced something sacred. Nestor didn't just hurt her—he defiled her.

For that, I will make him bleed.

I won’t just kill him. No, that’s too easy. First, I’ll carve his back open like a Thanksgiving turkey, each slice deeper than the last, until he’s begging for death. Then, I’ll take my time. I’ll make him wish for hell because even the devil won’t want his pathetic soul.

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