Page 43 of Devil's Due: Sarge

“Baby.”

She sobs into the line. I immediately go on alert.

“What’s wrong, babe?” I ask, well, demand an answer, really.

“I didn’t know if you were alive… I’ve beensoworried and… and… you’re out already? I can’t believe they released you already. God, Sarge, you were so bad.”

“I’m okay,” I reply softly. Hearing cries from this woman tears me up. “I’m okay,” I repeat. “But are you okay? I’m freaking out without you next to me. Not knowing if you’re hurt.”

“I miss you,” she whispers and my eyes shut, allowing me to relive those words over and over in my head.

“Miss you, too. Want you back, baby. Want you in my bed… want you in my life.”

Her loud sob steals my breath and chokes my heart through the line.

“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s marrying me off, Sarge. It’s a punishment. He’s marrying me off to a man who could make his life miserable. And it’s lucrative to the family.” She cries harder. “I’m never allowed to be alone except for my room… I’m a prisoner.”

“Baby, the brothers are assembling. We’re getting you out of there.” When she doesn’t respond I ask, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“They won’t let me go. You don’t understand the money and firepower they have at their disposal.”

The line goes quiet again for a moment before she returns with, “Just a second. Someone’s at the door.” Then I hear her call out, “Yes?”

It’s not loud, as if they’re talking through a door, but I hear the faint words, “Greer, Timothy is here to visit with you. I expect you downstairs in three minutes.”

“Who the fuck is Timothy?” I growl.

“He’s the man—the one I’m supposed to marry.”

“Fuck that. You aren’t marrying him.”She’s not marrying anyone but me. Seriously? Did I really just think that?Could I go through it again?Do I trust myself to go through it again?Over and over, I ask myself those questions, always coming up with the same answer:yes.

“I’ve got to go,” she says and the line goes dead before I have the chance to tell her that she’s not marrying him because she’s marrying me.

Despite how tired I’d been, sleep is sporadic at best and I don’t even have the luxury of tossing and turning because of my injuries. The lack of sleep does one thing—it’s got me up and going early. I check out, run through a drive-thru for breakfast, and hit the road.

The one I’m supposed to marry…

The one I’m supposed to marry…

Her words. Dammit, her words! No matter what I do, drink my coffee, change radio stations—it’s not enough to erase those words from my head and it’s messing me up. Bad.

As the hours pass, my unease grows to the point that by the time I reach Rumble, I’m one wrong word away from killing someone. It’s dinner time. I’m hungry, tired, and need to calm the hell down. I press my hands together in a prayer position, pressing the edge of my fingers along the bridge of my nose, taking in breaths until I feel together enough to go inside.

The line of bikes parked along the front wall is a line of bikes I recognize well. They must have really put the miles on the highway after my talk with Vlad to all be here. I shot him off a quick text when I was about half an hour outside of the city and here they are, waiting for me.

After finding a place to park, I head inside, stopping first at the bar for a bourbon on the rocks. Just this one. It won’t do me or Greer any good to get drunk. Although my side hurts, the rest of my body aches, and it would certainly calm my ass down. I think I’ve earned it. We’ll celebrate once we have her safe at home.

The bartender slides the glass over to me. The ice clinks against the sides, causing a few drops of the amber liquid to spill over the rim. I slide him over his money and down it. The glass stays at the bar, I walk over to the corner where my brothers are seated, staring at me.

“Goddamn, you’re a mess,” Reaper says in greeting.

“It’s nice to see you, too, brother,” I fire back, but add a laugh at the end so he gets that I’m not angry with him.

“How you feeling?” Vlad asks.

“About the same as I look, to be honest.” After the expected grumbles of “Fuck” and “Shit, brother” and other variants of the like, I look to each of the men sitting around the table, and break it down. “Talked to Greer,” I start, getting to the meat of it. “She’s being held prisoner. I guess her family doesn’t know she’s got that burner or I’m sure she wouldn’t have it.”

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