Page 46 of Reins

No.

Blood is smeared across her cheek and hugs her lip with pain etching her features.

I want to yell, cry out to her to run to me.

Instead, I pull my Sig and chamber a round. Those assholes are going to pay for this.

Avoiding the wash of light, I work my way around the side of the house to a dark window and test to see if it’s open.

Shit.

The next one is locked too.

My patience is wearing thin quickly by the time I make it to the rear door. At least that handle turns easily.

Burnt plastic makes my eyes water as I move quietly through the dark mudroom into the hall.

Clear.

Neon sights on the end of the barrel guide my eyes. By my estimate, I should be near her room.

A fucking padlock? On the outside of her door?

Anger clenches its furious claws into my gut. How do I get it off?

Backtracking, I find my way to the massive fireplace and snag the poker from the wrought iron holder.

This should work.

Now I have to choose, holstering my weapon or saving Ros?

Without hesitation, I slide it into the nylon sleeve under my jacket and wedge the pointed end of the bar behind the lock.

Stifling my groan, the wood splinters away from the deep screws holding the metal bracket. My shoulder finishes the job.

“Cade? You shouldn’t be here.” Rosalyn’s eyes are wide, well, one of them is. The other is so swollen I can barely see it.

“Come on, get your stuff, let’s go.” I rapidly gesture to her, pulling my gun out to have at the ready.

“They’re gone,” she whimpers as she picks up a small duffel and limps to me.

“Is that everything?” I try to fight the hatred that surges when I see her more clearly. Split lip, blood down the side of her face and on her throat, and her palm never leaves her waist.

“He burned my pictures.” Her chin trembles. “And my purse. All I have is a change of clothes.”

I pull her close, no longer resisting the urge to comfort her. “It’s okay, Ros,” I murmur against her temple. “We can fix all of that.”

Why does it feel so damn good to have her safely in my arms?

No, we aren’t out of danger yet.

“Can you walk?” I somehow manage to back away enough to see her bruised face.

“Yea, I’m just sore. I don’t think he broke anything, but he tossed me around pretty hard.” She raises her head, exposing her throat. “Is that bad enough for stitches?”

That mother fucker sliced her neck? I can barely see through the flush of red that tries to overtake my vision. “I don’t think so, but we’ll take you to the clinic and have you checked.”

“No,” she says too quickly. “If he comes back here and sees me gone, that’s the first place he’ll look. I’m okay, I swear.”