Lurch sighed. “This loose-cannon bullshit is bad for business. After Marcel lost it last year, more than half of our fucking contracts pulled out. Buyers want cars, not drama.”
“I know Vander was close to Marcel—they were cousins or something—but I thought he’d moved on for the good of the business.” Rick sucked his teeth.
“Let’s do this,” Luke prompted. “What’s the layout?”
“The typical,” Lurch said. “The warehouse only has a few cars in it right now, so it’s mostly big and empty. Just follow me.” He used the keypad to get them into the front office, and Fox closed the door quietly behind them.
Impatience made Luke want to explode into the storage area, to get Ophelia safe faster, but he knew it was a bad idea.
“Let us go in first and try to talk some sense into him,” Lurch murmured. “If he sees you he’s going to get hostile.”
Atlas clamped a staying hand down on Luke’s shoulder as the two men eased the door open and slipped inside. Luke felt like his heart was going to jump out of his chest. She was just on the other side of the door. They were almost there. He forced his breathing to slow and deepen as angry adrenaline snapped along his brain. He gripped his pocketknife, wishing he could just storm in and slit Vander’s fucking throat.
There was a long moment of silence.
He heard Ophelia’s cry of alarm.
Luke ducked out of Atlas’s grasp and he rushed into the storage area, his cousins on his heels.
Ophelia was alive. Eyes wide with fear, arms tied to a pole behind her back, hair mussed and trailing over her face. The sight of her made him weak with relief. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to beat the shit out of Vander and cut him into little fucking pieces.
But vengeance could wait. Ophelia needed him first.
She hadn’t noticed him yet and was watching Lurch and Rick check on Vander, who seemed to be out cold on the floor.
“They’re here to help us,” Luke told her, realizing she might think she was still in danger.
“Luke?” She tilted her head as if she didn’t believe it was him.
She looked so tiny, so vulnerable. “Yes, it’s me.” He got down next to her, flipped open his pocketknife and cut the zip ties.
Her body fell forward before she caught herself. He pulled her into his arms, holding her head against his chest and rocking her gently.
“Are you okay? God, I’m so sorry, Ophelia. Are you okay?” He felt like shit. What kind of man put the woman he loved in danger? He needed to touch her and make sure she was in one piece—wanted to get her somewhere quiet where he could check her over. But even as scared as she must be, he knew there’d be anger too. Fuck, he was so angry at himself he wasn’t even sure how to process it.
“I’m fine,” she said, planting a hand on his chest. “You’re hurting my head.”
Immediately, he eased back. He spotted the big lump on her forehead and rage overcame him. He brushed her hair back to get a better look. “What did he do to you?”
“Uhh,” Rick said from behind him. “I think you need to be asking what she did to him.”
Luke turned to the body a few feet behind him. He looked from Vander to Ophelia and back again. “You did that?”
She moved to nod but stopped abruptly. “Yeah, but now my head hurts.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry in relief, to be impressed with what she’d done or horrified at the risk. So much for being a damsel in distress. His princess was a warrior, too.
“Are you hurt, other than your head?” he asked her, shifting her so he could look her over.
“No.” She pushed his chest weakly, making him release her. “I’m fine. Just . . . I want to go home.”
He reached out, hovering, wanting to touch her, but she didn’t seem ready for that. He needed to hold her, but what she needed was more important.
This was all his fault and they both knew it.
“Of course.” He wanted to pull her back into his arms and never let her go. But she was holding herself stiffly and wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I’ll take you home.”
At that, her eyes widened with . . . fear. She was afraid. Of him. She held up a staying hand.