Page 61 of Stolen Rebel

“Grassed to the Garda about an incoming arms shipment and cost us millions.”

At the mention of the police, she stiffens. Interesting. “Why don’t you take a seat over there?” I point to a chair several feet away from the action. It puts her far enough away from the soon-to-be dead man that she won’t get splattered with his blood. I’m not worried about the violence she’s about to witness. It’s all part of my plan to show her that I am a man that people fear. As they should.

My soldiers have already roughed him up. One eye is swollen and sealed shut, his nose is broken, and his lip split, and it looks as though he’s got a dislocated shoulder.

I crouch in front of his chair. “Fergal.”

His one good eye blinks.

“There you are.” I rest my forearms on my knees, keeping my voice conversational. “I was beginning to think you’d died already.”

Fergal’s good eye slides to Rebel. A mistake. He isn’t good enough to clean her shoes with his fucking tongue, let alone look at her.

“Eyes on me.” I click my fingers. His gaze snaps back to me immediately. Good. He’s still lucid enough to be afraid. “You know why you’re here.”

His split lip moves. “Liam. I swear to God, I didn’t⁠—”

“Don’t.” I tilt my head. “Don’t fucking insult my intelligence by lying to my face. I’ve known you twelve fucking years, Fergal. I know when you’re lying. Your left eye twitches. Did you know that?” I stand slowly. “Why did you do it?”

“I had no choice. He said he’d kill my wife and kids.”

I flick my gaze to Rowan. I’d slaughter cities for her, yet this guy chose to rat us out instead. Wrong move. “And you couldn’t come to me with this? Couldn’t let me deal with it?”

“I should have. I know that now. Please, boss. I’ll never betray the Mahoneys again.”

I shrug out of my jacket, roll up the sleeves on my shirt, and take the toolkit from Domhnall, removing a pair of pliers. “No. You won’t.”

What follows isn’t pretty, and it isn’t meant to be. I use violence like a scalpel. Precise, purposeful. Without hesitation and without apology. His screams, loud at first, fade to whimpers and then… silence. I toss the tools into the bag and take the wet rag Domhnall passes to me, wiping the blood off my hands.

I allow myself to look at Rebel. She’s pale, chin trembling. Her gaze flicks to Fergal slumped in the chair. I take a step toward her. She launches upright and beelines for the exit.

Fuck.

I race after her. She’s bloody fast, but I’m gaining.

“Rowan, stop.”

She glances behind her, loses her footing, and slams into the ground, face first and with a sickening thud. I skid to a halt beside her, crouching.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t fucking move.

“Hey, mo rún.” Panic races through me. If she’s badly injured or worse, I’ll never forgive myself. This was supposed to be a lesson to help her trust me, to show her that I can handle my enemies and protect her and myself from harm. Instead, I’ve achieved the complete fucking opposite.

Don’t die on me. Dear fucking God, please don’t die on me.

She groans and a lightning bolt of relief shoots through me. “You’re okay, Rebel.” I keep my voice soft. “I’ve got you.”

Scooping her into my arms, I head for the car. It’s tricky balancing her while opening the door, but I manage it. I lay her down in the back seat and cover her with a blanket from the boot.

“I’m sorry.”

I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. She’s bleeding from a cut on her forehead, but it doesn’t look too bad. I don’t like how sluggish she’s talking, though. “Shhh. You’re okay. You’ll be okay.” Physically, maybe, but emotionally? Mentally? I could have just ruined everything.

I dive into the driver’s seat and fire up the engine.

“Where are you taking me?” Every word is an effort, and she closes her eyes.

“To someone who’ll take care of you.” Because I sure as shite haven’t. I’m decisive, but this time, I’ve fucked up. How badly remains to be seen.