Skin Deep (Station Seventeen #1)(104)

“What, he’s not going to entertain me in the main living space?” she asked, the hard soles of her boots calling out each of her footsteps over the marble.

“No. All the good private shows go down in his study.” A minute later, Franco nudged her over the threshold of a darkly-paneled office space, and she got barely two steps in before fear funneled all the way through her.

“Kellan.”

The whisper slipped out, and she dug her nails into her palms in order to keep from running to him. He was upright, although barely, one eye swollen shut and the other on its way. A brutal gash, small but deep, sliced over his temple, and there was enough blood leading down his neck and into his gray T-shirt to tell her the wound wasn’t child’s play. She met his gaze for just a brief second, trying with all her power to stay calm.

And then she looked at DuPree, and so much for that.

“Detective Moreno. You are full of surprises,” he said, regarding her from behind his desk. “It’s eleven-oh-five. Did we not agree on midnight?”

“You said midnight,” Isabella corrected, working up a smile that would thoroughly piss him off. “I never agreed.”

“I make the rules,” DuPree spat, and yeah. Keep coming.

“If you say so.”

“You want me to zip-tie her, boss?” Franco asked, stepping forward, but much to the relief she refused to let show, DuPree shook his head.

“No.” At the thug’s obvious shock, he said, “I want Detective Moreno unrestrained. We’re going to play one of my favorite games.”

Isabella tensed, but said nothing as DuPree opened one of his desk drawers. “Since you’re so fond of boundary-testing, Detective, I thought a bit of chicken was in order.”

A fine sheen of sweat beaded on her forehead, turning instantly cold as he began laying knife after knife on the smooth mahogany desktop. “Blades, huh?” she asked, carefully edging her fingers from her sides to her hips. She needed to keep him angry. “I didn’t figure you for the messy type.”

“No?” he asked, the eight-inch fillet knife in his grasp glinting in the overhead light as he examined it.

She swallowed, moving her hands to the small of her back. “Nope. Frankly, I didn’t think you had the balls.”

Bingo. DuPree slammed the knife to the desktop with a hard crack. “It’s time to shut that filthy mouth.” He rounded the desk, stepping in front of Kellan. “We’re going to find out how high your fuckmate’s pain tolerance is. You won’t scream,” he said, looking from Kellan to Isabella. “You won’t move a muscle. Because if you do, the cuts get deeper until he loses a limb.”

Adrenaline free-flowed in her veins, the tide changing the instant her fingers found purchase. “You’re not going to hurt him, jackass.”

Both Kellan and DuPree’s heads snapped up at the word. “And why is that?” DuPree sneered.

The answer came by way of a loud crash coming from the front of the penthouse, followed by the thunder of footsteps and shouts of “RPD!”, and Isabella’s muscles sang with relief.

“Because we’re not playing by your rules. We’re playing by mine, and I don’t work without backup.”

Everyone moved at once. Both Franco and Rampage scrambled for the exit, leaving their boss to fend for himself. Kellan’s arms shot upward, both elbows slamming down and out with enough force to snap the locking mechanism on his bindings. DuPree reached back for the knife on his desk, his face bent in a furious rage as he turned toward Isabella.

“Filthy whore!” he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth as he lunged not at her, but toward Kellan. “You’ll pay!”

She jammed the two-inch blade she’d had hidden behind her belt all the way into his neck.

Time elongated, each one of her heartbeats stretching out and showing her the scene as if she were watching a movie. She saw the startled look on DuPree’s face, quickly replaced by pain as his hands flew to his neck to try and stanch his free-flowing blood. She saw the door burst open, Sinclair and Hollister leading the way in with tactical gear on and guns drawn. She saw Kellan, eyes open, chest rising and falling, and oh God. Oh God, he was alive.

And then she saw the blood starting to pool at his feet.

“No!” Isabella’s scream ricocheted off the walls, filling her ears and her chest and her everything. “No, no, no, no.”

She surged forward at the same time Kellan swayed, catching him awkwardly and lowering him to the carpet, dimly aware of Hollister securing the scene and moving toward the spot where DuPree had collapsed, then Sinclair appearing in the doorway behind him.

“Kellan!” Her heart leaped as his eyes fluttered open, then catapulted against her ribs at the sight of the gaping stab wound on his shoulder. She slapped her hands over his T-shirt. “Okay, it’s okay. Sam!” she screamed over her shoulder. “Roll an ambo out here, right fucking now!”

“Copeland and Drake are on their way up,” Sinclair said, placing his hands on top of hers and pressing down with infinite calm. “We had them on standby. You both did great.”

“Isabella?” Kellan groaned, his eyes darting wildly, and she leaned in with a broken nod.

“I’m right here.” I have your back. I love you. God damn it, where were those paramedics and why weren’t they moving faster?