Obsession (Sinners of New Orleans #3)

Chapter 3

THREE

Adrian

S he’s wearing a stupid fucking dress.

That’s what I’ve been thinking about since I found her in the alley with another man’s hands all over her. A low-cut black leotard under a completely sheer and sparkly oversized shirt. The fact that she looks amazing in it only makes me angrier. She has no right to be so stupid and look so goddamn sexy.

Anger buzzes through my veins, and I’m not too ashamed to say I take it out on the asshole in the denim shirt beneath me. At first, I thought she wanted whatever this asshole was doing to her, then I heard that first meek no, and white-hot fury replaced all the blood in my body. If it wasn’t for the small gasp that distracts me, forcing me to turn my head and see Madi there, slumped against the brick wall, watching me with fear in her eyes, I’m not sure that I would stop punching this idiot.

Beating up shitheads isn’t really a normal thing for me anymore. Not since I was a teenager. No, I normally leave justice for the courtroom. But his hands were on my girl.

I pause long enough to look down at the idiot who thought it would be okay to touch Madi. Shit. He’s knocked out now. Blood dripping from his nose and lip. I release my hands, dropping his body and letting it fall limp against the cement.

“Fuck,” I grumble. I came here in search of Madi, but I didn’t expect to find her pressed against a wall while some asshole had his hands all over her. Anger burns hot in my blood at the thought. Push it down, I remind myself.

I reach into the guy’s pocket, pulling out his wallet and tugging his ID free. Royce Nichols . Tucking his ID into my pocket, I put his wallet back. I’ll deal with him tomorrow, but right now, I need to deal with my bride.

Madi looks shaken, her back pressed against the brick wall. Her pupils are blown wide and her teeth chatter even though it’s not the slightest bit cold.

“Come on.” The words are gruff, maybe harsher than they should be, as I extend my hand for her. She takes it, surprisingly, letting me pull her up onto wobbly legs. She can barely hold her weight, but I’m not sure if it’s from the alcohol or from what just happened. Either way, I slide an arm under her legs and lift her up. A squeak leaves her lips, but she doesn’t fight me as I carry her down Bourbon to where I left my car.

“Jesus, Madi.” I can still feel the rage radiating through me as I deposit her into the backseat of my Alfa Romeo. “What were you thinking? Bourbon Street? Are you a fucking tourist?”

“No,” she slurs.

I give her a look. That was a rhetorical question.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to get yourself raped?”

That sobers her up. Something about it should make me feel guilty, but the anger overpowers any regret I might have.

“I drank too much,” she whispers. As if on cue, her fingers reach for her temples like she’s feeling the nasty side effects of her night of mistakes.

“Clearly.”

“Where are we going?” she mumbles.

“My house.”

“I-”

“Don’t fucking argue with me, Madi.”

At my tone, her mouth snaps shut. Any argument she had disintegrating.

I inhale a deep breath to calm my nerves. “Close your eyes. We’re only a block away,” I tell her. She must listen to me. Within seconds, I hear her breathing even out, and I pull the car onto the busy touristy streets, my knuckles gripping the wheel so hard they turn red.

I drive through the gate outside my home, parking in my normal spot. Rounding the car, I retrieve Madi from the backseat. Thankfully, at 1 a.m., all of my staff is gone. I can’t imagine what Ms. Sinclair would think of me carrying in my fiancée drunk and passed out. She’d probably swat me with a newspaper and tell me to get out.

The old woman has worked in this house longer than I lived here. As long as I’ve been alive, really. When I bought the place, she approached me, telling me as much. I hired her on the spot. Truthfully, I did need someone to manage the house. It’s not like I was going to do it, and she already knew the place. Made my job easier. But her moral compass is stronger than mine and she makes sure I know it every damn day.

This wasn’t how I expected tonight to go. I expected that her family wouldn’t let her slip her guards and trapeze through the French Quarter unattended. And I definitely didn’t expect to get a phone call that she was missing.

I lay her down on the couch in my sitting room and scrub a hand over my face. I’m supposed to marry this girl in a day, and she’s running around the French Quarter almost getting raped. The asshole’s license burns a hole in my pocket, waiting for me to do something about it. But I can’t do anything right now, no. First, I need to make sure my future wife is taken care of. Then the next thing on my list will be to punish the man who dared to touch her.