Page 11 of Savage King

We captured two of the bastards who touched her. I saw their faces on the video Nestor sent Lambert, and I made sure my men took them alive. Because I have something special planned for them. Unfortunately, Nestor wasn’t at the warehouse.

But that won't be a problem. He caught a reprieve, not a pardon. It's only a matter of time before we find him. And when we do, I will personally flay every inch of his flesh for what he did to her. Her petite frame felt weightless in my arms. Fragile.

I don’t deal with fragile things. I break them. Use them. Discard them. But her? Holding her was something else entirely—like cradling a stolen relic, something so precious I shouldn’t touch it.

She looks so damn vulnerable that, once again, she reminds me of a bird. No, not just any bird.

When I was a boy, I found a baby sparrow that had fallen from its nest. The tiny thing was so small that I worried I would break it when I picked it up. My father laughed at me and told me I was a damn fool, that I was just setting myself up for heartbreak. He predicted the baby bird would never make it until morning.

I proved him wrong. With the cook's help, I fed the baby and built it a new nest, and the next morning, it was not only alive but doing well. I kept it with me every hour of the day, even at school, feeding and cleaning it. It grew into a regular sparrow, nothing special, yet it meant the world to me. It meant I could keep something small and fragile alive if I wanted to.

One day, it flew off and never came back, but the experience still lingers with me. Scarlet reminds me of that bird, and I will do anything in my power to keep her alive, too. I'll be damned before I allow her to fly away, though.

"This needs stitches," Doc mutters, probing Scarlet’s skin. "I’m worried about an infection."

I barely hear him over the steady thrum of my own rage. I’m still watching the wound, memorizing every detail so that I can carve the same pain into Nestor’s fucking skin.

"Don’t leave a scar," I order.

He glances at me as if I'd lost my mind. "You know that’s nearly impossible."

"Try."

My gaze flickers to Scarlet’s face. She’s slipping in and out of consciousness; her breathing is slow and shallow. I should be focused on revenge; instead, I’m focused onher. The way her lips part slightly when she exhales. The delicate rise and fall ofher chest. The softness of her skin beneath my fingers when I hold her up so Doc can check the other parts of her body.

"Were you hurt anywhere else?" he asks her the next time she comes to.

She shakes her head numbly. She's still in shock and probably in a great amount of pain. "I'm not sure. I think they kicked me here," she points at her side.

Gently, Doc moves her shirt out of the way to expose another angry bruise. The imprint of the tip of a shoe is visible, filling me with even more rage. I steel my features so neither she nor the nosy doctor can get a read on me.

"I'll give you some morphine. That'll take the edge off the pain and relax your muscles. I'll also want to add a drip of antibiotics," He explains his plan.

"Is that alright with you?" I ask her.

Her beautiful eyes are only half open. She's fading. Faster now that Doc put a drip on her and gave her the promised morphine.

I hold her up while I watch Doc. Every time the needle punches through her delicate skin, I memorize it. Nestor will pay for this with skin and blood.

Doc has been with the family for over twenty-odd years, ever since he was accused of killing a twenty-eight-year-old mother of two. It was her widower who came to my father asking for help. He told my dad that his wife had been in the end stages of ALS and that he had begged the doctor to release her.

The family was pissed at Dad for using company funds to pay for the best medical attorney to get Doc off until he started workingfor us, then they realized he was a lot better than the coke-addicted quack they had before.

Doc has long since quit his practice and works solely for us now, prospering in the process. He grumbles about it sometimes, but secretly, he loves his smaller patient base. He brings our children into the world, and they all call him Uncle Matto. He has become an uncle to our entire family, an uncle who just happens to be very good at digging out bullets in the middle of the night or stitching up knife wounds.

All the lights are turned on so that he can see better, and now I notice, frowning, an array of faint scars on her back. When he's done, I move her body to get a better look at them, turning Doc's attention to her back once again, "How do you think she got these?"

Gently, he probes her skin and looks at me. "You know what they're from."

I have an idea, but… "I need to hear it from you."

He nods, pulls up his glasses, and rubs the bridge of his nose where the frame has left a small indentation. "They are marks left by a switch."

Anger surges through me. Those marks are old. Carlos's men didn't do them. But if not him, who? The judge? If he did, I'll make him pay. The worst thing in the world is a child abuser. I can't stand those fucking cowards.

"They were done over years." Doc puts his instruments back in his bag.

Once Doc is gone, I find a T-shirt of mine and carefully put it on her. I have to cut the sleeve on the left arm to get it over theIV Doc put on her, but it's better than nothing. Then I arrange the pillows and turn her on her back, making sure none of her weight is on her bandaged wound.

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