Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(101)

‘I’m not going to put it on. I’m innocent. I want the police here. Now.’ His voice trembles with fear.

I lift the baseball bat and strike him in the gut. He doubles over in agony, staggers back two steps and drops to his knees clutching his stomach. Then he starts blubbering like a f*cking two-year-old brat!


‘Not so big and strong now, eh?’

‘You got the wrong guy,’ he sobs.

‘Yeah? Put the gag on or I’ll crush your skull with one blow. A beating or a quick death. Choose.’

He is struggling to breathe through the pain. He takes wet-sounding breaths. The ones people take when they are dying. It sounds like a rattle. But he is not dying. Not by a long shot. Oh no. Death would be too easy. I watch him put the gag on with shaking hands. Cowards never fail to fascinate me. Fucking idiot! Why would you put something on that is meant to silence you?

A savage growl tears from my throat. The rage in the sound surprises me. I thought I was through with all that years ago. I haven’t swung a baseball bat in ten years and yet here I am. For her.

Using my foot I push him to the floor.

Then I lift the bat high over my head and bring it crashing down on his kneecap. The shocking pain makes his eyes bulge and roll upwards. I think he might pass out, but fortunately he doesn’t. Cold sweat pours out of his skin as his hands rush to hold the smashed bone. I pick up the bat and shatter the other kneecap. He spasms with shock.

After that I rain his body with blows. Each one precise and destined not to kill but to maim permanently. Finally I am done. I stand over him. He is lying on his side: alive, but only just. His breathing is shallow and his eyes are half-closed. I use the tip of my shoe to tip his inert body on his back. A groan escapes his bleeding mouth. Two of his teeth are lying on the carpet.

‘This is just a little warning. Open your f*cking mouth and heavy comes next,’ I say mildly.

I take a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe his blood off the bat. How strange! So many years since I did something like this and I still carry a pristine white handkerchief on my person and a baseball bat in the boot of my car.

Calmly, I walk out of his flat. There is a phone box around the corner. I get into it and call nine-nine-nine. I change my accent to a Cockney one and tell them a man is dying in his flat.

‘Looks like he’s been beaten bad. Get an ambulance, man.’

I ring off and look at my hands. Dead steady. I feel ice cold. I get into my car and drive to Lily’s apartment.

Melanie opens the door.

I go through and come to a dead stop. My hands start shaking. Tears sting my eyes. Shit. I haven’t cried since I was fifteen years old, when I saw my father fall down dead at my feet.

Hell! This hurts so bad I want to bellow.

She stops too and we stare at each other. Both shocked. Her by my reaction, me by her appearance. Minor bruises! Fucking hell. Her face is so swollen and blue-black I can hardly recognize her. Then I start advancing on her. My gait is that of an angry bear. I want to be normal but I can’t be. The raw fury simmering inside me is making me shake.

I reach her and she touches the blood splatters on my clothes. Then she looks up into my eyes—hers are huge pools of fear. I see her eyes change, widen. I am alien to her. In her nice candy-floss world what I did to her attacker is wrong. ‘What have you done?’

‘Gangster rules,’ I say harshly.

‘Is he dead?’

‘No, but he’s wishing he was.’ Tears are slipping down my face. I just can’t help it. My mate has been badly injured.

‘What is it?’ she whispers.

‘You need to go to a hospital.’

She shakes her head. ‘I’m fine. It looks worse than it is.’

I have never experienced this fierce need to protect before. Ever. The way I feel shocks me to the core. This is not me. I’m tough. I’m in and I’m out. I don’t trust anyone. In this business you can’t. A king is never killed by his enemy but by his courtiers. They are the only ones who can get close enough to poison the wine, stick the blade in. I’m not saying, ‘Et tu, Brutus,’ to anyone. The easy way—never let anyone get close.

Except her.

She opens her arms. Her lower face is too swollen for her to smile but I see it in her eyes, a smile of comfort as it is I who have been attacked and am in pain. The tears fall faster as I catch her to my body and hold her tight. She’s still here. She’s still mine. I squeeze my eyes shut. And then I lift her into my arms.

‘I can walk,’ she whispers.

But I don’t put her down. I turn around with her in my arms and Melanie wordlessly opens the front door. I walk out with my baby in my arms.

I could have lost her. But I didn’t. Never again will I be so careless with her.



I put her on my bed and she looks up at me drowsily. The stress has worn her out. She looks so small and defenseless in my bed. Her fingers are curled into a light fist. I circle the wrist, shocked at the fragility of the bones in her hand. Gently I rub my thumb along the pulse leaping on the pale underside of it. Her vulnerability terrifies me. Scares me. Makes me feel weak.


‘Sleepy?’

‘Hmmm…’ she hums.

I sense her slipping away, drifting into dreamscapes where I will not be. I pull her closer toward me. When she is awake there is always a part of her that remains aloof and watching. She is like a forest. Deep and dark. You can lie or howl in it. She murmurs something that I don’t catch, and snuggles in, accidentally scrapes her face against my forearm, and winces.