Page 61 of Wicked Sinner
I hear her scream, and every part of me reacts as I lurch out of the chair and head for the door, my whiskey tumbler falling with athudto the rug. I hear Konstantin behind me, demanding to know what’s going on, but I don’t bother answering. I need to get to Bridget.
"Bridget!" I can hear how frantic my own voice sounds, calling her name. "Where are you? Bridget, answer me!"
“I don’t know!” she screams into the phone. “Outside of the city?—”
I hear her voice from far away, as if the phone has been taken. I shout her name, but before I can say anything else, the line goes dead.
There are heavy footsteps behind me, and I hear Konstantin’s voice.
“What’s going on?” he demands.
"I have to go." I'm already walking, headed for the front entrance. There’s no time to waste. "Someone attacked Bridget."
"Caesar—"
But I'm already gone, taking the stairs three at a time as I race toward the front entrance. My mind is spinning, trying to figure out who would be bold enough to go after her. My father had plenty of enemies, but most of them wouldn't dare move against me so directly. Not when I'm under Konstantin's protection.
Unless they're not afraid of Konstantin.
Unless they have protection of their own.
Could Tristan have done this?The question rattles violently in my head as I fling myself behind the wheel of the Ferrari andpeel out of Konstantin's circular driveway with enough force to spray gravel across his pristine lawn.Why?
Did he want to remove Bridget so there was no chance of me going back on my agreement? Revenge for me not abandoning my efforts to take over my father’s legacy?
Or is it someone else?
I don’t know. I don’t have time to parse it out, but the questions rattle around in my head as I speed toward the GPS dot where Bridget’s phone was, weaving through traffic like a man possessed. Because that's what I am—possessed by the need to get to her, to make sure she's safe, to kill whoever dared to touch what's mine.
I let her go, but she’s still mine. She always will be, even if I never get to touch her again.
No one else will, either.
I slam on the brakes when I see the wrecked car, the Ferrari briefly spinning out before coming to a stop. I’m out of the car while it’s still running, looking for any sign of Bridget.
Marco and Bryce are slumped in the front of the car, dead. My chest tightens. They were both good, loyal men. They didn’t deserve to die like that, and anger floods through me.
Whoever fucking did this is going to die. Slowly.
I see the broken phone in the grass on the side of the road, see the burn marks from another car leaving in a hurry. For a moment, my heart drops, because I’m at a loss as to where to go from here. If Bridget was taken away from here, it’s going to take time to find her. Time that she might not have, depending on what her kidnappers want to do with her.
I should never have let her go.Guilt floods me as I search the area for any sign of her, followed by a spark of complicated relief when I see a spatter of blood on the asphalt leading away from the road several feet up.
It might be Bridget’s. But that would also mean she’s hurt.
I follow the trail. It leads into the grass along the side of the road, flattened by heavy shoes. There’s a score in the earth where a bullet hit, bark peeled off of a tree from another. The blood winds through the grass, past several run-down homes, and my pulse beats harder as I wonder if Bridget managed to get away. Managed to run—but they would have followed her.
I break into a run myself, following the sprinkles of blood until they cross another street, leading me to a gas station that barely looks operational. It’s the kind of place that sees more drug deals than legitimate customers.
The blood trail leads around the back of it to a side door. I shove it open without thinking, wincing at the sour smell as I charge into a bathroom that’s seen far, far better days.
There’s blood on the tiles. Blood on the sink. My heart beats so hard that it hurts, and I shout her name. “Bridget!”
A beat passes, a painfully long moment in which I wonder if they followed her here. If she’s gone. If I’m too late.
And then the door of the far stall flings open, and Bridget stumbles out, white-faced and the denim covering her right calf soaked in blood.
“Caesar.” She gasps my name, and I go to her without thinking, crossing the space between us in two long strides as I gather her in my arms. “Caesar, oh my god?—”
