Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(10)
I know what those teardrops mean, and it’s not that he’s prone to weeping.
I say hoarsely, “My name’s Tru. Remember that. It’ll come back to haunt you.”
He scoffs. “Aw, you gonna sic your hound dog on me, Alabama?”
I answer him through gritted teeth. “No, because I’m gonna kick your ass when I see you in hell. And it’s Texas, you inbred idiot.”
With the last of my strength, I punch him in his Adam’s apple.
His head snaps back. He makes a loud gagging noise, falls back onto his ass, and grabs his throat, coughing.
His companions are stunned for all of about two seconds, until one of them says angrily, “What the fuck?”
He delivers another savage kick to my stomach, then lifts his arm and points his gun at my face.
I throw my hand up instinctively and close my eyes, my whole body clenched as it waits for the loud crack of gunfire.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, I hear a startled yelp, the dull thud of fists hitting flesh, then a cartoonish series of grunts and groans. There’s some scuffling and angry cursing. Something big hits the side of the Dumpster with a loud metallic clang—then the sickening sound of bones crunching echoes down the alley, along with a piercing cry of agony. More thuds, more grunts, a heavy groan, then it falls quiet.
I lift my head and look around, squinting to see through the shadows.
When I can focus, I see two men lying unmoving on their backs on the ground a few feet away from me, eyes closed, bloody faces upturned to the rain.
Standing over them is a man dressed all in black like an undertaker. He stares at me with no expression. His empty hands hang loosely by his sides.
It’s the wolf.
Movement from behind him distracts me. The one who put a knife to my throat is trying to scramble to his feet. His eyes roll wildly as he staggers and coughs. He spots one of the guns his companions carried lying a few feet away on the ground and lunges for it.
He doesn’t make it.
The wolf spins around, grabs the robber’s head, and gives it a hard, violent twist to one side. He slides to his knees, topples to his side, then lies still.
I know by the sickening snap his neck made that the knife-wielding robber who called me Alabama won’t ever be calling me that again.
The rain falls harder. Somewhere off in the distance thunder booms. Jagged white fingers of lightning crackle through the night sky.
The wolf kneels down next to me and gently touches my face. Looking me over, he curses.
“How badly are you hurt? Talk to me, lass. Can you stand?”
His voice is low and urgent. His eyes blaze with fury. His face is shadowed in the hollows, dark hair dripping water from the ends.
He looks beautiful and terrifying, like an avenging angel coming to lay waste to the entire world.
I try to speak, but the sound that comes out isn’t a word. It almost doesn’t sound human.
He whips his cell phone from his suit pocket, jabs at it, puts it to his ear. He tells the operator he needs an ambulance and gives the address.
The last thing I see before I pass out is him staring down at me, his big rough hand cradling my face.
5
Tru
I wake up in a hospital bed with a needle in the back of my hand and a pleasant fuzziness in my head. Sunlight streams through the windows. Birds chirp in the trees outside.
I have no idea what’s happening.
Pain pokes vaguely at the edges of my awareness, but it’s being held in check by whatever wonderful mix of meds are flowing through my veins, courtesy of the needle. It’s attached by a line to a clear plastic bag of liquid hanging from a metal stand. A beeping machine nearby displays a variety of nonsensical readings in cheerful yellow numbers.
Snatches of memory drift by like clouds: Sirens. Rainfall. The ride to the hospital in an ambulance going much too fast, judging by all the uncontrolled swerving.
The wolf on the seat opposite my cot, gazing at me in stone-faced silence.
His hand gripping mine.
I must’ve gone in and out of consciousness, because I have no recollection of how I came to be in this room or this bed. I have impressions of people as they leaned over me, faces blurry, lips moving without sound, and of being wheeled to different rooms, the seams of the ceiling tiles passing by overhead like lines on a freeway. There must have been tests, X-rays or such, but I don’t remember those, either.
What I remember most clearly is believing I was about to die—horribly, painfully—but I didn’t.
My big bad wolf saved me.
It’s a testament to just how hopped up I am on pain medication that the thought makes me smile.
“You’re awake.”
The low voice comes from my right. When I turn my head in that direction, the wolf rises from a chair next to my bed. Tall and imposing, he stands looking down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable, his black suit and tie unwrinkled, not a hair out of place.
The only evidence of last night’s carnage is the single telltale spot of red on his starched white dress shirt collar and the bruising on the knuckles of his right hand.
When I moisten my lips, he grabs a cup from the nightstand beside the chair and holds the bent straw to my mouth so I can drink. I sip, cool water sliding over my tongue and down my throat, gazing up at him as I swallow.