“It is finished.” The child translates her callous words.
When I come to, perhaps moments later, I have no idea, bullets wiz back and forth. My knees crunch onto the dirt floor, muddied by my own blood. A bodyguard guides Princess Noor out the back door. The older woman ordered to abort my child rushes along on their heels. The armed guard who’d punched me in the gut steps out right after, pushing the child to hurry up.
“Come back!” I scream. In my delirium, Iwantthat cruel bastard to return. He could kill me in a matter of seconds, but I will try to take him with me.
I’ll never forget his face.
A scar botched half his eyebrow, and the man had tiny teeth.
He fires off a few more shots through the hallway before disappearing into the night.
At the sound of another firefight, I realize why I fell to the floor. The twisting of an imaginary knife in my abdomen reminds me that my child is—dying. I scurry toward the back door. This exit is now a clear shot from the house’s entry hallway. With the bullets pelting in every direction, I second guess chasing after them.
On hands and knees, I move toward a wooden chest at the foot of the gurney. With tear-salted cheeks, I open the chest and climb into the dusty, narrow oak passage. Hands over my mouth, I try not to sneeze. Every time a gun goes off, I jumpily whisper Psalms 23.
After forever, the chest begins to open. My eyes seal shut.
A voice that has signed itself across my heart and is more familiar to me than my own reflection whispers across my skin.
“Lux,” Victor gasps. Positive that this is my body’s reaction to trauma, like that PTSD crap I went through at the sight of blood in the past, I bite my eyes closed harder.
A rock-hard body scorches my cold sweaty skin. The sinew of muscles enveloping me causes my eyes to fly open.
“Vic, you’re bleeding,” I mutter. My mind’s a muddle of thoughts that extend to onlyhim.
I push away any other considerations. “Vic, you’re—”
“Luxury,I’m fine!” he shouts. I know he’s lying for my benefit, but I quickly hoist myself down from his arms and onto a pair of wobbly legs.
His eyes venture to the dried blood on my thighs. My voice is but a whisper. “Please, don’t stare.”
“Luxury . . . Oh, God. The . . . the baby,” he murmurs. I’m no longer standing before the calculating man I loathed during the first introduction but the one who pined over his wife and child. Even then, there’d been a fire in Victor’s eyes when he finally spoke of Emeli. I understand something. The world he shared with her and Jude should’ve never collided with ours.
“We must go, Luxury.”
The pants I’d stolen from the hotel room are trampled by the door. I quickly grab them and place them on. I’m waiting for Victor’s next orders, but he’s staring at a small sticky puddle of blood below the makeshift examination table. Suddenly, it hits my man that he was mere moments too late.
Not a second later, all of Victor’s efforts become fruitless. He didn’t save the baby. Nor did he saveus.There’s a commotion in the hallway, and malicious, armed Arabians surround us. Guns larger than I could fathom are drawn on myself and the man I’m just now realizing isn’t invincible.
12
Victor
Ihad myself a moment back there where I could not grapple with the current circumstances. Al Rafi’s men caught me ill-prepared, which probably mitigated the bloodbath I’d planned. Now, the militia has escorted us back to the hotel and to a penthouse suite. One of Al Rafi’s servants provided Luxury with clothing. She’s in the loo, showering and changing. I sit on a leather settee. The wound in my shoulder, steeped beneath my steely grip, was long forgotten about the second after they offered hospitality.
My targets sit across from me, Al Rafiandthe Duke of Somerhaven, Silas Tudor. My bloody fucking father. They’ve champagne in their hands as they pass each other a written decree.
“You’ve obtained your woman,” Silas repeats, glaring at me over the top of the declaration. I can see it in his eyes.
Bloody payback.
I ground my teeth, reminiscing of the time my hands brandished the bastard’s neck.Should’ve finished off therubbish.
Silas holds out the paper and a twenty-four-carat gold pen to me. The wanker uses a fatherly tone. “Now,signthe agreement.”
My mind toys with thoughts of murdering the sheikh and the guards surrounding him. Any man that holds loyalty to him is a mark.
Even Silas.