“I’m fine. Don’t worry, but tell him he’ll want Ryker to be ready and waiting,” I added, hanging up the phone.
Backing into my bedroom, I got my handcuffs.
At least they were being used for something.
6
Sadie
I tapped my fingers on my cheek and heaved out a sigh as I waited. Not wanting to take my eyes off the dude on my floor, confliction filled me.
I hated sitting still.
That was enemy number one, but the blood-stained sheets, wall, and carpet begged me to break out the bleach. The coffee table had also shifted a few inches to the side when his face used it as a landing strip of the less fun variety. The indentations in the carpet where the legs once sat looked like red pools as they filled with the blood dripping out of his nose.
The need to move the coffee table back, and the inability to do so, drove me up the wall until my pacing reached a new speed. I kept my distance, tapping my fingers on my thigh in a steady rhythm.
One. Pause.
Two. Pause.
Three. Pause.
Four. Pause.
Five. Pause.
I waited, and then I started over. When the man groaned and struggled against his hands cuffed behind his back, I fought the temptation to hit him in the head again. Matteo would want him alive for Ryker to play with.
Temporarily.
His groans grew louder as he became more aware with every second that passed. I didn’t have any neighbors in my apartment above the gym who could hear his increasing struggles, but that didn’t mean his voice wasn’t annoying as fuck. Pathetic as only a man could really be. Why wasn’t there a word for man hurt? Mansick didn’t quite apply.
I went to my bedroom, grabbing a pair of Patrick’s boxers off the top of the open box of his that sat and waited for him to take back.
It wasn’t like I could gag the dude with my own underwear.
I stepped up to his head, pinching his bloody nose until he mouth-breathed all over me like the nasty thing he was. Shoving the boxers into his rancid face hole, I stepped back and fought the gag that pinched my throat.
I’d washed the boxers before shoving them in the box.
Shame.
Matteo’s knock on my door was anything but subtle, and I stepped over to let in the Bellandi brigade. Ivory’s body collided with mine in a rush, propelling me back into the room so quickly that I almost fell on my ass. “Woah,” I laughed. “I told you, I’m fine.”
“You were attacked!” she hissed, pulling back to look at me. Her brow furrowed. “Weren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I nodded, watching as the men stepped in. Matteo and Ryker led the charge, with Scar and Simon hot on their heels. Two more followed them, seeming vaguely familiar from my time spent around the Bellandi Estate, and my small apartment felt microscopic as it filled with too-large male bodies that didn’t belong in my space.
Matteo gave me a quick glance over, seeming to determine I was safe enough and unharmed despite the circumstance that brought him to my personal haven for the first time. “What’s that in his mouth?” he asked, bending down to inspect the dude with the twitchy eyeballs. He’d wake up soon enough.
“Patrick’s boxers,” I said. The other men in the room huffed out a laugh in perfect unison, no doubt amused by my choice of gag.
“You good, Short Stuff?” Ryker asked, his blue eyes studying my face and looking for a sign of weakness he wouldn’t find. Simon paced around the main living area, studying everything in that observant way any decent bodyguard had. Scar tested the lock on the door, leaning down to examine the doorknob before he straightened and closed it behind him.
“I’m good, Meatball. Assuming you guys are going to clean up the blood. It just does not go well with my color palette.” I waved a hand dismissively, disguising the genuine concern I felt over the stains. The Bellandis didn’t need to know.
Ryker laughed. “Yeah, she’s good. Got anything?” His attention shifted to Scar as quickly as it had settled on me.