Page 58 of Protected By the Sinner
“Because it’s my job to deal with things like that.”
“The hell it is. Amber is my—” I stop mid-sentence.
My what?
Nothing. Just a traitor who plotted against me.
I look at him, and without saying a word, he seems to read my thoughts.
“Yes, I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “She could’ve gone to meet the Italians. But why wait months to do it? It doesn’t make sense, Beau.”
“Nothing about this shit makes sense, Roman. They’ve never used a woman before.”
“Element of surprise—like the Trojan Horse[6]. What are you going to do with her?”
My jaw clenches.
Pain and rage are tearing me apart.
Betrayal is the lowest a person can sink.
Before I can answer, Roman’s phone rings.
I’ve known him for years, and I’ve never seen him hesitate. But when he ends the call and looks at me, I know something’s happened.
“Talk.”
A thousand scenarios run through my mind, but when he finally tells me what happened, it’s like my worst nightmare come true.
“One of our men just called. Amber was hit by a car right in front of your house. Witnesses say she crossed without looking. She’s unconscious. They took her to the hospital.”
Hours later
I feel like a machine.
I haven’t gone in to see her yet because I’m torn in half. There’s a voice inside me screaming that she’s my Amber, the woman who’s spent the last few months in my arms, whom I’ve wanted more than anyone else, but I can’t ignore the truth: even lying in a hospital bed, Amber Martin is a traitor.
According to the doctors, she survived by some kind of miracle—only because the driver, an elderly woman, was going very slow. The lady went into shock and had to be treated too. She said Amber appeared out of nowhere and because it was already dark, she didn’t see her in time.
I stare out the hospital window at my security team in the parking lot.
Roman and half a dozen others are still in the hallway. No one knows what to do—because neither do I.
“Mr. LeBlanc, may I speak with you?”
I turn and see the doctor, who was introduced to me as the head of the team. As he approaches, my bodyguards shift closer, but I give them a nod to back off.
“I assume you’re responsible for Miss Martin.”
“Yes,” I answer automatically.
“If you could follow me to my office...”
Inside, he closes the door and offers me a seat.
“Is something wrong with her? They said you were running tests.”
“It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. She has a contusion, but your girlfriend was lucky—like, escaped-by-the-skin-of-her-teeth lucky.”
