Chapter 26 Fawn
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
fawn
“Boss! Come back here!” A familiar Italian voice calls out, the sound finding me on the grass. It belongs to one of the henchmen, but I don’t quite understand his words.
I whimper, rolling my head to the side.
A rogue tyre rolls past me.
I focus beyond it to find Clay Butcher crossing the street between flashes of people, damaged cars, angry black tyre marks, and heaps of metal pieces.
He stalks towards me, eyes like arrows on a target, haunted and stunning, one hand pressed just below his ribcage, one arm swinging to pull his huge, formidable body towards me.
He is limping. There is blood seeping from between his fingers, fast—too fast.
His blue eyes burn.
I sigh. “Sir…”
He drops to his knees beside me and sweeps the hair from my face, narrowing his searing blue gaze, wrapping me in the warmth and safety of his attention. As he takes in the sight, his jaw pulses.
“Sir. My babies.”
His eyes widen with dread, and I think this is the first time I’ve seen true, near crippling fear, so vivid, so capable of crumbling worlds, reflected in his gaze. “Where are they?”
“In the ambulance,” the biker says.
Clay dips his chin in the biker’s direction, lowering his voice, forcing a word through clenched teeth, a word that seems more dangerous than a bullet. “Alive?”
“Yes.”
Clay closes his eyes and exhales.
Then his stare is all over me, detailing my every inch, tears, dirt, legs, stopping on my forehead. Lingering. His pupils expand.
“Over here!” he roars.
Suddenly, a henchman is at Clay Butcher’s side, already rummaging through a half-open white bag. “I need to stitch your abdomen, Boss.”
“Do her fir—”
“Boss!”
Clay grabs the collar of his shirt. “Do. Her. First.”
“Grab another ambo,” the henchman says to the biker with a familiarity that seems strange.
Biker shakes his head. “They’re all occupied.”
“Fuck,” the henchman bites out.
I whimper. “My babies…”
Clay cups my cheek. “Will have their mother very soon, little deer. So soon. They are probably exhausted. Not scared, sweet girl. Just sleeping.”
Lies.
I like them.
As the henchman leans over me, his arms cast twin shadows across Clay’s face. I focus on Sir, ignoring the fact that my forehead is currently being stitched back together.
Clay’s features are blurry, out of focus, and obstructed, but stunning, gazing down on me like an angel of protection. “Kudos, God,” I choke, then close my eyes.