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“I know!” I snapped, snatching my hand away from him. “I was there!”
“And I fucking wasn’t!”
I flinched at Damien’s sudden outburst, my heart galloping in my chest as I slammed my eyes shut and braced myself for the smack—the crack of skin on skin that would ring in my ears, taunting me, laughing at me long after the blow.
But there was only silence.
Lifting one eyelid, I found Damien sitting back on his heels—lips parted and eyes wide, as if my reaction had physically punched him.
I couldn’t reconcile the wounded man I saw kneeling before me—shoulders hunched in shame, brow furrowed in remorse—with the salivating beast who’d murdered a room full of men, some with his bare hands, just hours earlier. It was as if there were two men sharing the same skin—Damien Hughes, the sweet, selfless Irish boy with a hidden dimple and a talent for drawing; and the lieutenant, a commanding, merciless killing machine, forged by the Russian Mafia and destined to rule over it one day.
Damien would never hurt me. I knew that. I did.
But the lieutenant?
He hurt everything he touched.
Damien finally opened his mouth to say something, but the sound I heard next wasn’t human. It was the groaning of weight on an old wooden floorboard, and it came from the stairwell in the corner of the bakery behind me.
Damien’s eyes darted over my shoulder to the pitch-black doorway, and when they returned to mine, they were harder than gunmetal and twice as deadly.
The lieutenant was back.
And I hated how relieved I was to see him.
CHAPTER 24
DAMIEN
It was demented, but I was actually relieved that someone was approaching. I needed an outlet for all this rage, some Russian face that I could smash with my bare hands before I fucking exploded.
This whole time, I’d assumed that I’d gotten to her before the worst of it. That they hadn’t … violated her yet. She’d seemed okay, happy even, once she felt safe and full, but … fuck. When I’d touched her, she’d looked at me like I was one of them. Cowered from me like I was her captor. Flinched at my raised voice like I’d beaten her myself. I was furious over what they’d done to her. I was furious over what they’d taken from me. But I was fucking livid with myself for letting it happen.
If I’d gone with her that morning when I heard her leave, none of this would have happened. I should have looked for her sooner. Should have asked where she was going. I’d thought she just needed some air, but now—
The wooden floors creaked again.
Now, I was going to kill whoever the fuck was coming down those stairs.
Sliding my gun out of the holster as silently as possible, I stuck it in the back of my waistband. Not that I wanted to use it. What I wanted to do was beat this fucker to death. Kick him in the ribs, like they’d done to Clo. Feel his skull collapse around my fist and hear his screams of agony as I severed each and every appendage that might have been used to hurt my girl.
Another wooden groan echoed through the stairwell. I glanced over at Clover. She watched me with wide eyes, white knuckles clasped around her naked legs. A subtle shiver ran through her, so I picked up my blazer and took a step toward her.
This time, she didn’t flinch. She held my gaze as I draped the disgusting fabric over her body. It was covered in even more blood and bullet holes than before, but she smiled weakly at the gesture, which cooled my wrath. Slightly.
This fucker was still going to die.
Standing against the wall between Clo and the stairwell, I took an offensive stance, lifting my hands and waiting for the shadow to appear.
And when it did, I attacked.
A thrill shot through me as I grabbed the bastard and slammed him against the wall on the other side of the doorway. He let out a grunt, but it was hardly audible over the sound of a woman’s shrieking cry, coming from the top of the stairs.
“Jacqueline!”
Jacqueline?
“Let … me … go!”
