Page 77 of Rescuing Aria
Marcus coughs once, then lurches for the cloth.
“Give me that?—”
I shove him back with more force than necessary.
His eyes flash with something dangerous—possessiveness, not protection—before he controls his expression. But his actions betray him. Instead of trying to protect Aria, he fumbles for his phone, fingers desperately typing what I suspect is a call to his security team.
Not a word to comfort his daughter. Not a move to shield her. Just self-preservation wrapped in expensive tailoring.
“Your phone will be blocked,” I tell him, disgust barely contained. “They’re using jammers.”
“I have private channels,” he snaps, continuing to type. “Unlike your organization, my security team has proper contingencies.”
Even as the gas fills the car, Marcus’s priority is clear: Marcus Holbrook. Not his daughter. Not the woman he insisted on protecting at his penthouse rather than Guardian HQ.
His own damn skin.
I want to kill him.
I try the emergency release under the seat. Nothing. They’ve thought of everything. The gas thickens, clouding my vision. My lungs burn despite my attempt to hold my breath. My limbs grow heavy, and my responses grow sluggish.
“Jon…” Aria’s voice sounds distant despite her proximity. The jacket slips from her grasp as the sedative takes effect.
“Stay awake,” I manage, even as darkness edges my vision. “Remember everything you see. Count… Count the men. Note details.”
Marcus slumps against the window, unconscious. Aria fights longer, her training from our previous ordeal evident in her resistance. However, the gas is too potent and professionally formulated. Her eyelids flutter as she struggles to remain conscious.
A sharp tap on the window draws my attention. I force my head to turn, fighting the chemicals pulling me under.
Damien Wolfe stands there, immaculate in a charcoal suit that whispers new money. Not the rabid dog from our intelligence files—this man looks refined, controlled. His hair is perfectly styled, his posture relaxed. No visible weapon, yet he radiates danger more effectively than his armed men.
He smiles, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes, too similar to Marcus’s.
Something about that smile stops my heart colder than the gas. This is revenge.
Something beyond the half-brothers’ feud.
The door opens. Hands reach for Aria. I lunge forward on instinct, muscles betraying me as I collapse half across her lap. My gun clatters uselessly to the floor.
“Jon.” Her fingers brush my cheek as they pull her away, the touch featherlight but deliberate. A goodbye, or perhaps a promise.
I fight the darkness, memorizing faces, counting men, gathering intelligence even as my consciousness slips. Marcus is dragged out next. Even sedated, his body language speaks of entitlement, chin lifted as if he’s being inconvenienced rather than kidnapped. The contrast between father and daughter is stark.
Aria thinks of others in danger.
Marcus is concerned only with himself.
The last thing I see before blackness takes me is Wolfe bending to whisper something in Aria’s ear, his lips close to her temple, almost tender. Her eyes widen with shock before they roll back in sedated sleep.
TWENTY-ONE
Aria
Cold air hits my face,and the world tilts sideways.
Hands grip my arms, too tight, dragging me from the car. My legs won’t work. My head lolls against someone’s shoulder. Chemical sweetness coats my tongue.
Jon. Where’s Jon?
