The Fearless King (The Kings #2)(81)

Nothing.

There was no one around.

He keyed in the code—Beck had been using the same goddamn PIN since he was sixteen—and the lights and sound obediently died. Frank hissed out a breath and shook his head at himself. Car alarms were the biggest waste of fucking money in existence, and he needed to be careful going forward because he was obviously jumping at shadows.

“Put the gun down.”

Frank froze. The voice came from behind him and to the left—near the front of the car next to Beck’s BMW. Elliott’s voice. Fuck. “That was a cheap trick.”

“You’d be surprised how often cheap tricks work. Put the gun down or I’ll put two in your back. Imagine how prettily my daughter will cry over your casket.”

Frank weighed his options. He could try to turn and shoot, but Elliott had the drop on him. He’d get at least one shot off before Frank could turn fully, and one shot was all Elliott really needed.

Too risky.

He set the gun carefully on the ground. “There.”

“Kick it away—under the car…Good boy.” Elliott chuckled. “Now, let’s go for a drive.”





Chapter Twenty-Three



It took longer than Journey would have liked to get the doctor to see things her way, but when she badgered him about how he was going to guarantee Eliza’s safety, he’d finally agreed to sign the transfer papers. All that was left to do was bring Eliza around.

She stopped inside the door to Eliza’s room, shock derailing her drive. Her sister looked just as terrible as Bellamy had said. Bandages wrapped half her face, and a cast encompassed the left side of her lower body. Oh, honey. Her sister stirred, and Journey wiped all sympathy off her face. Eliza wouldn’t see it as sympathy. She’d see pity.

And she’d hate Journey for it.

She took a shallow breath and straightened her shoulders. “Hey, Eliza.”

“Hey.” The word came out duller than she expected. As if her sister could barely put forth the effort to communicate. I was right about getting her out of here.

Journey strode to the bed and peered at the IV machine. “We’re taking you home.”

“Home…” Interest threaded through her voice, though the word slurred a little. “You don’t mean New York.”

“No, honey, I don’t mean New York.” Bellamy would coddle Eliza. Anderson would swing between wanting to handle her with kid gloves and bungling it because he didn’t do handling well. Someone needed to lay things out straight. Eliza might be the favorite baby sister, but she was still a King. She’d survived, the same way they all had, and she’d been living on her own for years. She was made of tougher stuff than their brothers gave her credit for.

Tougher than Journey gave her credit for, too.

She met her little sister’s blue gaze. “Bellamy is getting Mother’s old place ready for you. We’ll have an in-home nursing staff until you’re recovered, and then I expect there will be some kind of physical therapy, though it’s up to you to decide if you want to do that in-home or go to them.” The interest faded from Eliza’s face, so Journey pulled out the big guns. “The accident wasn’t an accident.”

Eliza tensed. “You seem so sure.”

“And you don’t seem surprised.” She grabbed a chair and pulled it over to sit next to the bed. Maybe looming over her sister wasn’t the best choice for this conversation. Frank’s men outside the door would ensure they weren’t interrupted. “What do you remember about the crash?”

“Nothing. One second I was driving, the next I was flying.” Eliza glanced at her phone sitting on the table next to the bed. “But I’m not stupid. Either Elliott didn’t want me leaving—and wanted to send a message to you—or someone doesn’t like the fact that I’m part of the bargain for this fucking merger.”

Her sister knew it wasn’t an accident. She’d sat here, alone and helpless, maybe waiting for someone to come finish the job. Anger pulsed through Journey and she clenched the arms of her chair. “I’m going to take care of it.”

Eliza’s eyes flew open. “Jo, no. Let Anderson handle it. Or call Mother. She’s always been so damn good at fighting our battles. I don’t want any of you hurt because of me.” She reached up and touched her own lips. “Damn it.”

Journey had thought she was sparing Eliza by withdrawing, by them all withdrawing over the years. They never talked about what happened in that house. Oh, Anderson was always there if Journey needed an anchor, and she knew he dealt with his demons by sweating them out. Even Bellamy showed the strain occasionally by appearing at work after what was obviously a sleepless night, face drawn and shadows lurking in his eyes.

But not Eliza.

Never Eliza.

If one of them got out unscathed, it was supposed to be her. She was only four when Lydia saved them. Surely all she had were patchy memories? How would I know if we never talked about it? Journey cleared her throat. “He’s not going to win, Eliza. And he’s sure as fuck not going to hurt you. I won’t allow it.”

“Jo—”

Something clanged outside the door. Journey shot to her feet, her heart racing. We’re in a hospital. There are sounds in a hospital. Every instinct she had shouted that she was lying to herself. Bad things were happening.