My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(106)

“T, the fuck are you doing?” a robber cried out. He sounded young.

“She’s not going to disrespect me.” T pointed his Glock at Shortbread.

Something strange happened in my chest in that moment. An eddy of frenzy. An intolerable appetite for blood and violence.

I shot up, blocking his view of Dallas. He stumbled back when I got in his face, pushing him off. His friends ran away, leaving him behind—cowards—while he struggled to regain his balance.

I snatched the gun by its barrel.

“Stop!” T tried jerking back his weapon. “Fucking let go.”

“I told you not to threaten my wife, did I not?” I pushed the gun downward and snatched T by the throat with my free hand, squeezing so hard his eyes bulged out of their sockets, pink and round and petrified. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Nobody threatens my wife and lives to tell the tale.”

He gurgled. Foam bubbled out of his mouth. In the background, I registered the sirens nearing, people gasping, and Dallas begging me to stop.

But I couldn’t, even if I tried.

All I could think about was how he’d aimed his fucking gun at her, all because she wanted to keep her grandmother’s heirloom. A grandmother I’d never meet.

There were so many things about her I didn’t know, and this idiot almost ensured I’d never discover them. If he did something to her…if he hurt her…

I clasped his throat so tight, I felt the bones inside it strain, on the verge of breaking.

“Oh, Lord,” Dallas shouted, just as the robber collapsed to the floor beneath me from lack of oxygen.

I didn’t think he was dead.

Brain damaged, maybe.

No great loss, considering his less-than-intelligent actions so far.

“Romeo.” Dallas sprang on me, clutching my shoulders.

She handed Frieda to Casey when she saw my face.

“Are you okay?” She cupped my cheeks. Her hands shook. Those beautiful hazel eyes glittered with tears. “Please, please, tell me you’re okay. Tom called 9-1-1. The ambulance is on its way.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about this punk. For all I care, he can die right here on my floor.”

“Not for him. For you!”

For me?

I inventoried Dallas first.

Arms. Legs. Neck.

Everything seemed intact.

A sudden burst of pain struck my left arm. The same left arm that now felt like deadweight. Like it no longer belonged to my body.

I looked down and realized I stood in a pool of my blood. My gaze rolled up to my arm. I’d been shot. Grazed, to be more accurate.

Well, this was inconvenient.

As the adrenaline subsided, pain began trickling in.

Dallas waved a hand in front of my eyes, trying to capture my attention again.

“Hello?” She tapped the center of my forehead. “Anyone in there?”

I tore off some of the tattered fabric. “Fortunately, there’s a great deal of distance between the bicep and the brain.”

“A bullet hit your arm.” She fawned over the gnashed skin, jumping from side to side as if it would vanish at a different angle. “How can you be so calm about this?”

“Would running around hysterically with tears streaming down my face close the open wound?”

“Do you test your own products or something?”

No, but I’ve survived worse fights.

Dozens of cops burst inside and collected the knocked-out man beneath us, cuffing him. A commotion of people swirled around me, with Reynolds and two cops trying to push them away to give me space.

I detested attention, especially the positive kind.

One of the police officers pulled Dallas aside. She kicked, yelling at him not to touch her, refusing to leave me. A fact that surprised and delighted me.

With my uninjured arm, I drew her to my chest. “My wife stays.”

The ambulance arrived soon after. A paramedic ushered me inside, cutting through my clothes to reach my wound. We both examined it through sober eyes.

Shortbread stood beside the open doors of the compartment, growling like a guard dog at any reporter who neared.

“Looks like a shallow wound. I could use some stitches, but it seems like a scrape.” I nudged the paramedic’s hand away. “I can do it myself. I don’t have time to play around at the hospital for hours.”

He dabbed the wound with antiseptic. “Protocol says you have to accompany us to the hospital.”

“Fuck your protocol.”

“You can’t—”

“Are you going to take me against my will?”

“No, but—”

“Then, I can.”

Dallas’s head whipped toward us. “You should get this stitched.”

The sheer worry clinging to her voice thrilled me, which was how I knew I was completely and utterly screwed.

“I will. I know what I’m doing.” I hopped out of the ambulance, making my way to our Maybach, where Jared awaited. “Come, Shortbread.”

She looked torn between trying to convince me to go to the hospital and doing as I said. In the end, she seemed to remember her husband answered to no one, not even her, and joined me.

When we slipped inside and I bled all over my leather seat, shirtless, Jared didn’t ask any questions.