Page 12 of Ruthless Savior
"Ronan, we need to go!" Owen's voice is strained, punctuated by gunfire. "Rocco’s got backup coming. Two more SUVs just pulled in. We need to retreat. Make a new plan?—”
"Two minutes!" I repeat, moving toward the cages.
Shooting the lock is too risky—the bullet could ricochet through the bars and hit her. I slam the butt end of my gun against it instead, several times in quick succession, until it breaks. I yank it off, pulling the door open and holstering my weapons as I reach for the woman inside.
“Cover me!” I bark at Finn, and I see him and the other two men fanning out around the door out of the corner of my eye, doing exactly that.
She feels almost weightless in my arms, and she looks young. Early twenties at best. She’s unconscious but breathing, dressed in a tank top and loose joggers that look like men’s clothing she was given to wear, both filthy. I can see injection marks in the curve of her arm—she was drugged to keep her unconscious. I see a yellowed bruise on her jaw and around her left eye. She’s been a prisoner for a week or so, then, or someone hit her before that.
“Ronan.” Finn’s voice cuts sharply through my assessment of the woman in my arms. “We have to gonow.”
"Ronan!" Owen's voice follows, crackling over the radio. "Rocco's running! North exit! There are too many! We need to get out!"
I twist toward the direction he specified, then look down at the unconscious woman in my arms. Rocco is getting away. The man who killed my wife and child is slipping through my fingers, and I should be chasing him down. I should be telling Owen to call for backup of our own, to get to the SUVs and give chase.
Instead, I heft her carefully in my arms, and nod to Finn and the others to cover me as we start moving toward the exit we came in through.
“Tell them to get to the SUVs and load up, meet us at the exit,” I tell Finn sharply. “Tell them we’ve got one of the girls. Tell them to light the place up. They’ll have to find a new spot to deal in, and it’ll send a message for tonight.”
He nods, his attention sharp on the warehouse around us as he speaks into the transmitter.
When we burst out into the frigid night air, Danny has one of the SUVs running and waiting for us. Owen and the men are busy getting the place ready to set alight, and I crawl into the back of the SUV with the girl still in my arms as I see the first licking flames starting to burn. “Call emergency services once we’ve put some distance,” I tell Finn. “We don’t want to take the whole shipyard out. Just this one.”
Rocco will know it was us. It will be a message, though not the one I wanted to send tonight.
But it's a start.
“Get us back to the mansion,” I tell Danny. “And call the doc. She’ll need medical attention.”
"What about Rocco?" Finn asks from the passenger seat.
“We’ll deal with him,” I say flatly, watching as the flames outside start to spread. “But another night. Let him worry about what we’ll do next.”
Finn nods, picking up his phone as we pull out onto the highway. I feel the woman in my arms stir, and for the briefest moment, her eyes flicker open, letting me see their color: green. A pale green, the color of raw emeralds—and for some reason, I find it entrancing.
“You’re safe,” I say quietly, as she makes a sound very like a low moan, a sound that prickles over my skin. It’s a sound of pain right now, but it could be something else, and my body responds to it despite the inappropriate moment.
It’s been a long time since I’ve touched a woman I wanted, or been touched by someone who wanted me in return.
She parts her lips as if she wants to say something, and her eyes flutter closed again. “I’m Ronan,” I murmur, fighting the urge to brush her hair out of her face.
Her tongue darts out, wetting her cracked lower lip before her eyes open again, for just a second.
“Leila,” she whispers, before she falls back into unconsciousness again.
4
LEILA
The first thing I notice when consciousness creeps back is that I'm not dead.
The second thing is that the bed I’m lying in isn’t mine.
It’s softer than my mattress at home, like lying on a cloud, with sheets so soft the thread count must be astronomical. As I blink my sticky eyes open, my head aching with a pain that feels like I’ve been battered, I see that the room is entirely unfamiliar as well.
It takes a moment for the panic to set in, for my thoughts to catch up. I see dark wood furnishings and a gleaming wooden floor, an expensive-looking rug stretched out in the center of it, and a door cracked open at the far end to give me a glimpse of a bathroom that looks as big as my bedroom at home. The curtains are closed, but they’re heavy and made of velvet with antique-looking gold cords hanging from the hooks. The entire room looks weighty and old-fashioned, like a room in a manor house, like the furnishings belong in a museum.
Fuck, did Neil sell me?
