Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(47)

Breathing shallowly, Spider stares at me. I can tell he’s struggling to control his emotions and carefully choose words that will change my mind.

Finally, he gives up. He stands and walks to the door.

Before walking out, he turns back to me. Holding my gaze, he says softly, “I’ll not stand idly by while that Russian son of a bitch does whatever he likes to the lass, Declan. I’ll not stand idly by.”

He leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

Two hours later, he texts me from LaGuardia.

My flight is about to take off. I’ll call you when I have her.

“You barmy son of a bitch,” I say aloud to the empty room, astonished. “You’ll get yourself murdered.”

Then I pick up the phone and call the only person in the world who can help me now. A man who knows everyone and everything, even though he died more than a year ago.

Killian Black.





25





Riley





I lie still for a long time, staring at the wall. My vision’s blurred without my glasses, but I can tell the wall is made of logs.

I’m bedridden with a gunshot wound in an assassin’s log cabin in Russia. I’ve been unconscious for a week, and parts of me have been removed.

I’d laugh if I didn’t already feel like crying.

I need to use the toilet, so I gingerly swing one leg over the edge of the mattress. Minutes later, when my breathing has returned to normal, I swing the other leg over and sit up.

The pain is so intense, my eyes water. I think I might puke.

Malek appears in front of me and takes me by the shoulders. I get the sense he wants to shake me in anger, but he doesn’t. He growls at me instead.

Panting, I say to his feet, “I have to use the bathroom.”

“You need to stay in bed.”

“I need. To use. The toilet. You can help me stand up, or you can get the hell out of my way, but I’m not peeing in this bed.”

Silence. A dissatisfied grunt. Then he gently lifts me up by my armpits and stands there holding me as I groan and sway and struggle to get my balance.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

“Focus on your breath, not the pain.”

I grip his corded forearms and drag in deep breaths until the worst of it has passed.

I read somewhere once that a gunshot wound is more painful than childbirth, and I remember laughing at that. Like how can pushing a human through your cooch hurt less than getting hit by a bullet?

This is how. This right here.

Childbirth only rips your vagina apart. A bullet rips up your whole body.

“Did I lose part of my intestines, too? It feels like my guts were torn out and replaced with razor blades.”

“Gunshots to the abdomen are among the most painful of all injuries.”

“You say that like you have personal experience on the matter.”

“I do. Are you steady?”

“As much as I’m going to be.” Which isn’t much, but I’ll be damned if I’ll admit that I’m probably going to fall flat onto my face as soon as he releases me.

I might be an invalid, but I still have my pride.

“The bathroom is over there.” He gestures to something.

“That would be helpful, if I could see where you pointed.”

“Your vision is that bad?”

“I’m legally blind without my glasses.”

“I’ll get you another pair.”

“They’re prescription.”

“Let me worry about that.”

He takes one step back, keeping his hands underneath my armpits. I shuffle forward. He takes another step back. We go halfway across the room like that, until he loses his patience.

“This will take forever. I’m picking you up.”

“I need to walk. It helps with blood flow and healing. Lying in bed too long after surgery puts you at risk for blood clots and lung problems like pneumonia.”

I sense surprise in his pause. “How did you know that?”

Because that’s what the doctors told my mother after the surgery she had to remove her cancerous ovaries, but I’m not in the mood to share painful personal anecdotes.

I say crossly, “I’ve got a big brain.”

His answer is mild. “Your head is uncommonly large for such a small person. Have you ever been approached by the circus and offered a job?”

“That’s not even a little bit funny.”

“Then why are your lips turning up?”

“That’s the face I make before projectile vomiting.”

He picks me up and carries me the rest of the way to the restroom, as if we didn’t already go over this. When he sets me down in front of the toilet and stands there with his arms folded over his chest, staring at me, I blanch.

“You’re not standing right there while I pee.”

“You could fall.”

“Yes, I could. That would be an appropriate time for you to appear and assist me. Not now.”

He doesn’t budge. Which, of course, makes me mad.

“Why go to all this trouble for someone you were threatening to kill? You could’ve just let me die back there and been done with me.”

As if he thinks he’s making perfect sense, he says calmly, “You took a bullet for me. I’m responsible for you now.”