Wicked Burn (Realm Enforcers #3)(39)

Years ago, he’d memorized the layout of the Dublin streets, and he’d kept updated through construction and modernization. All the same, the Coven Nine had resources even he couldn’t penetrate with his intel, but hopefully they hadn’t found all of his routes, either.

So he took it easy through several streets and back alleys, gradually increasing his speed, and eventually ducking into an alcove he’d had created just a year ago. Set into a century-old brick building that housed antique books and maps, he’d found peace there many a time while keeping watch over Simone.

His duties for Zane hadn’t allowed for much vacation time, but every once in a while, he’d found himself in Ireland keeping an eye on her.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Alcove. They’ll pass us, and we can maneuver around to my apartment. It’s only a couple of blocks away.”

She nodded, her face resting against his shoulder blades, her long hair plastered to his left arm from the rain. They waited several minutes until the traffic sounds behind them faded.

Then he slowly pulled out of the alley and took quiet back streets until they reached the front of his apartment building. “We’re here. Let me pull underground to parking, and then we go at full speed for the elevator.” He didn’t expect anybody to be waiting, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

Simone nodded against his back without saying a word. The woman must be exhausted.

He began to drive down when instinct tickled his neck. Simone stiffened behind him as if sensing danger, as well.

Nick clutched the brake and swung the bike around, trusting her to hold on.

A woman ran out of the underground garage, gun out and shooting. Darts impacted his arm from his elbow to his neck, and a sharp pain attacked his nerves. Shit. Planekite. He swung again, trying to keep his body between Simone and the darts.

He opened the throttle, and the bike jumped out of the garage, careening into the street.

More darts hit his other arm, and Simone gave a low cry of pain.

Hell. She’d been hit. How many darts, he couldn’t be sure. Too many could be deadly.

“Hold on, baby,” he muttered, opening the throttle wide open.





Simone’s vision wavered, but she held on to Nick, her fingers curling into his abdomen. At least one dart had hit her arm, and from the instant numbness, there might be more.

Nick swung the bike around and shot directly into an alley behind a florist’s shop. He cut the engine and jumped off, instantly taking inventory and yanking a dart out of her shoulder. “Hell.” Quick motions had her shirtsleeve ripped open to reveal a puncture wound already turning reddish purple. “It didn’t hit a vein.”

Was that good? She swayed, her mind fuzzing.

“Hell, Simone. This is going to hurt.” His fangs dropped low and sharp, glinting in the soft light, even through the rain.

She frowned and tried to focus. “Huh?”

He grabbed her arm, tight, and she realized his plan. “No—” Panic had her trying to yank free, but he held firm. A quick pull forward, and a ducking of his head, and his fangs pierced her skin.

Raw pain, almost agony, exploded in her bicep. “Nick—”

He gave no quarter, biting until his fangs met and scraped against bone.

She struggled against him, reality shutting down and only survival instinct remaining. Her strength was no match for his, and she cried out, tears flowing down her face.

He jerked back, ripping away a chunk of flesh, and she screamed. Darkness wavered around her, and she blinked, using every ounce of stubborn will to remain conscious.

“I’m sorry.” He swung a leg over the bike behind her and ignited the engine, pulling her back against his body. “Just hold on to the bars until we get to a different safe house.” His hoarse voice sounded like he’d eaten glass, and the tension emanating from him pricked against her skin until she shivered.

Having no choice, she leaned back against him and let him take her weight with one arm banded around her waist. Her thighs tightened on the seat, and she tried to keep her balance, but she needed his strength. He drove with one hand, jerking too hard a couple of times, but keeping the bike moving.

Finally, they reached the outskirts of Dublin and drove through several hills, reaching a tidy hut barely visible through trees. He drove along an overgrown path and drew to a fast halt by a front door. He jumped from the bike and lifted her, hustling through the storm and into a quaint one-bedroom cottage.

“Simone?” He laid her down on a plush bed covered with a wedding band quilt.

Her arm bled profusely, and he ran to the kitchen to grab towels to bring back and press over the wound.

She gasped and reared up, the pain almost unbearable. Tears slid down her face and across her lips.

He kept one hand tight against the wound and gently wiped off her cheeks, his gaze intense. “Sweetheart? Talk to me.”

It was the “sweetheart” that did it. Simone Brightston, the Coven witch known far and wide for being tough to the point of bitchy, lost it. Completely. She sat up and fell against his chest, face-first, and bawled like a newborn.

The pain was excruciating, but the fact that somebody had fired kill darts at her hurt as much as the fact that somebody had set her up for trial. That person really wanted her dead.

Now she had a gaping hole in her arm, one that had probably saved her life, and she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to heal it.