Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Erin
Obeying Bayne, I only reach the edge of the hallway as Caleb walks further down. I watch his back, his shoulders tense as a crowd of men steps out of the shadows. Caleb gives a confused look over his shoulder at me.
I stare back.
And they’re on him, dragging him out the back door—the one I waited for Mary at. She let the King’s men in, hiding them in the storeroom for us, waiting for this moment.
Behind me, the real action begins.
The bartender ducks. Someone screams.
I turn, watching the room as it explodes.
Not with bullets.
With bodies.
The Kings.
They move like shadows. Silent. Lethal. One man grabs Rory by the throat and slams him into the bar. Another lifts the girl off the table and hauls her to safety.
Bodyguards suddenly surround me.
I catch a glimpse of Bayne—eyes that burn cold blue. He doesn’t say a word. Just pins Rory against the wall and growls something in a language I don’t recognize.
“Madness!” Rory stares at Bayne, then back at me with crazed eyes. “Erin! What is this madness ye bring into me bar!”
Bayne looks at me, holding Rory there. “Rory, we meet again.”
“Ain’t it a pleasure?” Rory spits back.
Bayne nods to his ‘wee’ Jonjo, a musclebound man twice my size with the roughish look of Scotland etched into his face. “Let the girls and his other men go.”
Unease settles in my spine. If we take Caleb and not Rory, Rory will gather the Hoax immediately.
“We take him, too,” I cry, breathless. “Take Rory, too.”
Bayne turns back to Rory. “We take their king.”
“Taking Caleb as our pawn,” I murmur. I almost want to smile. But there’s still too much danger.
The bar clears fast after that. Jonjo lets everyone else go, barring the front door behind them.
Bayne turns Rory over to three of his men. They will escort Rory to one of their vans that’s waiting out back. There’s also one for Caleb.
Rory turns his head, spitting blood on the dirty bar floor. He gives me a long look of hatred, but doesn’t say a word. He adjusts his lapel with pride and walks out the door.
The air reeks of sweat and something coppery.
Everyone else has been given their commands. Now, Bayne’s attention falls to me. He says, “Brilliant idea using yourself as the bait to get Caleb alone for us. My men have him.”
“Thanks,” I breathe out with relief. Then I remember Rory. “I’m so sorry for the complication. I wasn’t expecting Rory. Now I’ve made more trouble.”
“Now you have his father captive as well, the king of the clan! I’m sure you and Lucian can find a way to work with that.”
“Lucian,” I whisper, not ready to go back and face him.
He’s going to be so angry when he finds out I left the cabin without telling him. Gathered up the Kings behind his back in my stubbornness. Came out here to bait Caleb without him at my side.
But all with good reason. To protect him and Gregory.
Lass, I really need to talk to you about the other part of your plan,” Bayne says, giving me a stern look. “The part where we don’t tell Lucian where you are?” He shakes his head. “That part I didn’t like.”
The hair stands on the back of my neck. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,”—Bayne’s chastising eyes lock on mine—“he’s here.”
“He’s here!” My voice goes up an octave, my head snapping around the room. “Where? Outside?”
“Yes,” Bayne says, “waiting for you.”
I give a beat for the realization to settle in. “Okay.” I nod, swallowing the bitterness in my throat. “God. Okay.”
And I move to the door to accept my fate.
The sky is now black, rain pouring down. The kind of rain that soaks you to the bone. The storm is turbulent but not as dangerous as the look in his eyes.
Lucian.
He’s standing next to a black sedan with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on mine, rain pouring over his shoulders. His anger crackles through the air between us like heat lightning.
I start toward him. One foot in front of the other.
He doesn’t move.
But his voice carries across the wind and the clatter of the rain.
“Get in the car, Erin.”
I hesitate, and he throws the passenger door open.
“Erin. Get in the car.”
“I had to—”
His eyes narrow. “Now.”
I slide into the passenger seat without saying a word. He slams the door shut. Moments later, he’s in the driver’s seat, livid, and the tension in the air is almost unbearable.
“I can explain,” I whisper.
Lucian doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me.
But his hand finds mine in the dark.
And squeezes.
Hard. With a promise behind it.
Then it’s back on the wheel, his knuckles white as he grips it so tightly he clinches his fists, driving us back to the moors.