Page 56 of Claimed By Daddy

I lift my head, my thoughts swimming. Cillian stands nearby, his expression cold but steady, standing over Sargsyan’s body with his firearm lowered. “He’s down. For good.”

Below me, Eavan’s eyes are glassy with tears. She runs her still-bound hands along my jaw, her fingers dragging through my beard. “You came,” she whispers, fighting back a sob.

“Always,” I exhale.

She presses her forehead to mine, her breath shaky and words laced with fear. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

“I promised you I wouldn’t let them take you.” I cup her face and stare into her eyes. “I willneverlet anyone come between us.”

I kiss her gently. Not caring about anything else—my wound, the blood, or the fact that we’re surrounded by quite a few dead Armenians. I need to feel her and know that she’s safe. She melts into me, bound hands still trembling, holding onto me like she’s never letting go.

Pulling back, I wince as I try to sit us both up. “Enz,” she gasps, seeing the blood at my side. Her fingers hover over the wound, trying not to hurt me.

“I’m okay,” I lie.

Cillian kneels beside me, calm and efficient. “You’re hit?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I grimace as Cillian lifts my shirt to inspect the wound.

“You’ll live.” He shrugs with a smirk. “Through and through. Almost a flesh wound.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” I mutter.

He reaches for Eavan, cutting the ties around her wrists with a knife , pulling her close. “You all right?”

She nods. “Yes.”

Nikolai jogs toward us with his rifle slung over his back. “We’ve got to move. This wasn’t exactly discreet.”

Nikolai and Cillian lift me slowly. I grit my teeth and stay upright, wrapping my arm tightly around Eavan’s shoulders when she insists on nudging Nik out of the way. She stays at my side, supporting me. As we move back toward the vehicles, I take one last glance at the jet behind us—at the man who almost stole everything from me. I look down at Eavan, her hand wrapped tightly over mine, blood seeping between our fingers.

Her eyes are still welling with tears, but she takes every step with determination as we walk away from the carnage together. She’s safe in my arms again. And that’s all that matters.

My nostrils are still flooded with the smoky kerosene-like scent of jet fuel and the coppery tang of blood as we walk toward the black SUV. Everything from the tarmac is a blur—running, Sargsyan’s gun shoved in my side, yelling, and the crack of gunfire, Enzo’s arms around me, his body covering mine. It all happened so fast and so slow at once.

We climb into the back of Hawk’s Tahoe. Enzo’s blood is warm on my hands. It’s sticky, soaking into the black leather of the SUV’s seat, staining my fingers and my heart at the same time. Cillian slides in beside us, calm as ever, with a med kit in his hands. Taking gauze from him, my hands shaking, I apply pressure to Enzo’s wound. I press harder to stop thebleeding, but the bandages are almost immediately soaked through and rendered useless. Pressure, elevation, keep him conscious—I try to remember what I learned in first aid at school—but my brain is filled with white noise.

“Hold still,” I whisper, though he’s barely moving.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, clamping his hand over mine and squeezing it tightly. “Just a scratch.”

It’s notjusta scratch. His white shirt is dark with blood, and there’s more oozing from beneath the gauze and dripping down his side, painting his skin in streaks. He winces every time the SUV hits a pothole or speed bump. I can feel the tremble in his muscles, the tension in his jaw. He’s trying to look strong, trying to protect me even now.

“Will you tell her I’m fine?” Enzo asks Cillian.

“Enzo will be okay,” Cillian insists, and I nod like I believe him. He works fast, cleaning the wound—his fingers are quick but gentle. “It looks a lot worse than it is, Eav. It’s deep, but it’s clean. It could’ve been a lot worse. He just needs some stitches.”

It could’ve been a lot worse…

Enzo shifts in his seat, and I push him into the seatback with a firm hand on his chest. “Stop being a stubborn fuck. Just let him take care of you.”

“Language, princess.” He smirks through his grimace.

I want to yell at him. To smack him.

But I don’t.

Instead, I keep my hand pressed against his and whisper, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

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