Eight Justice
EIGHT
Justice
I am far too relieved to see Ella standing in that ridiculous little pink hospital gown, legs bare.
She’s such a tiny thing. Long legs, though.
Bare, bruised, scraped. Toes painted—neatly, even now.
I clock the details, the fragile angles of her face, the ice-blue eyes, the ugly bruise riding her cheekbone.
Stacia and Corinda hover by the windows and out of my reach. Smart. Wait. Corinda has her phone out. “Put that away, or you won’t like where I put it.”
Her eyebrows rise, and then she slowly drops the phone into her purse. Good.
Then I shift my focus back to the gun pointed at me. “Put that away.”
Sylveria Rendale looks far too comfortable holding it, no hesitation in her grip. She was probably born with a pearl-handled weapon in her hand. “I don’t think so.”
Her voice scrapes along my shoulder blades and oddly cuts between my toes like somebody trying to sharpen a knife there. It fucking hurts. I shrug once, remaining calm because I’ve already decided how this ends. “All your men are down. You shoot me, you die. It’s truly pretty simple.”
She frowns, but she’s calculating, not panicking. “Are they dead?”
“No. You left mine alive at Ella’s little safe house. I returned the favor.”
“Oh.” She keeps her composure. I’ll give her that.
Impressive, considering I’m one wrong twitch from putting her on the floor.
Without a word, she slips the Smith & Wesson back into that absurd designer handbag like it’s part of a brunch outfit.
Elegant, polished, venomous. “Well,” she says, schooling her features, “I saw no reason to kill your man. I believe he was trying to help her. I am worried about my stepdaughter, as you know.”
Bullshit.
I truly don’t have time for this. “I know you put a hit out on her. That failed. What I don’t understand is why she’s still breathing right now.”
Stacia gasps, and Corinda cocks her head. Yeah, they’re not in their mother’s world.
Ella nods from next to the bed, sharp and emphatic. “Exactly. I’d like to know the same thing.”
Sylveria lifts one toned shoulder, all casual elegance and fake concern. “As I said, she’s my stepdaughter. It’s my duty to protect her.”
I shift my weight, noting how my shoulder blades feel better.
Why? Even so, blood is drying on my jaw, and my patience is shot.
The room smells like antiseptic and whatever designer crap Sylveria wears.
“My man reported there was a fight in the house.” I turn my full attention to Ella, my voice flat. “Who hurt you?”
She looks too pale in that thin little gown, her skin almost translucent under the soft light.
I don’t like seeing her this way. So fucking defenseless.
I need to remember how much danger she actually poses.
But every protective instinct I’ve got is wide awake and clawing through my ribs, and I really hate that she does this to me.
She lifts both hands, helpless. “I have no idea. If it wasn’t your guys, and it wasn’t Sylveria’s, I’m truly not sure.” She glances down and to the side on the word “sure.” She’s lying. Or not lying, exactly—just not saying everything. She has an idea, but she isn’t certain.
“Who have you hacked lately?” I ask bluntly.
She pulls back like I slapped her.
I raise a hand. “Don’t.” I’m not in the mood. My jaw still aches from the third man of Sylveria’s that I dropped in the hospital. The bastard had a decent right hook. He’s unconscious now, which mollifies me slightly.
“I’m not lying.” Ella strides away from the bed. Her movements are stiff but determined. “Where are my clothes?” She hovers there for a second. Small. Still half dressed in hospital linen, bruised and tired. But not broken.
“I told the doctor to bring you scrubs so I could take you home,” Sylveria says, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve.
I straighten. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”
“I say no.” Ella frowns, crossing her arms like she thinks that settles it. She looks adorable and tousled. “I’m not going with either of you.”
She’s wrong, but I’m not about to argue with her. Her feet catch my attention again. That bubblegum-pink polish. My eyes keep drifting down to her toenails, and I hate that I keep noticing. I’ve never been a foot guy. Ella Rendale could change that. The thought is uninvited and irritating.
I straighten my shoulders, forcing my focus back where it belongs. “Ella, we’re leaving. Now. We don’t have time to wait for clothing.” I have no doubt Sylveria has more men coming. I brought three of my own with me, but I’d rather not end up in a shootout at this overpriced, glorified hospital.
Ella’s small chin firms. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“All right.” I stride forward, done playing nice, and I’m gratified when she instinctively takes a step back.
Smart girl.
I grab the white blanket off the hospital bed—that’s some luxury cashmere thing that probably costs more than most people’s rent—and toss it around her shoulders, pulling the ends shut at the front.
“What are you doing?” she snaps.
Even that harsh sound feels like a balm to my skin. This is so not good. “Making a burrito.” I wrap it snugly around her. The moment flickers with something almost warm until she blinks, her gaze landing on my mouth.
“Are you all right?” I dip my head, checking her eyes.
They’re clear. Not glassy. She’s aware. She’s been in a fight, no doubt. The bruise along her cheek’s blooming purple, and I don’t like seeing it. I hate knowing someone got that close.
I look over my shoulder at Sylveria. “Where’s the guy who hurt her?”
“We have him,” she says, calmly. “We’ll figure out who he is.”
Good. He needs to bleed. “I want him.”
“No.” Sylveria watches Ella try to escape the blanket.
Her one word scrapes my skin. “Yes.”
Sylveria lifts her chin with that same smug confidence she wears like perfume. “All right, you can have him. But I’m keeping Ella.”
Ella continues struggling to get out of the blanket. “Nobody is keeping me.”
“Wrong, princess.” I duck my head and lift her as gently as I can over my shoulder.
She’s light, and while the doctor’s notes said she’s mostly okay, I can feel how tense her muscles are under the hospital gown and blanket.
She’s putting on a brave face, but her body’s not convinced.
I don’t want to hurt her, but I’m also not giving her a vote.
“Hey,” she starts, trying to worm her arms free from the wrap.
“Behave yourself.” I wrap one arm over her legs and turn toward the door. She keeps squirming, but it’s half-assed, more out of protest than real escape. She knows I’m not letting go.
Sylveria’s already reaching into her purse again, slow and theatrical. That same polished calm.
“You reach for that gun,” I say coldly, “I’m going to make you eat it.”
She pauses, hand still, mouth pressed into a line. We lock gazes. She steps to the side, just enough. “I am quite the witness, Justice Beathach,” she says. “If Ella ends up dead, I’ll make sure every newspaper and authority in the world knows it.”
“She’s not going to end up dead. Not today, anyway.” I shift Ella’s weight slightly, tightening my hold on the wriggling bundle over my shoulder. She’s still not yelling. She’s not pleading. She’s saving her breath for something that actually matters.
That’s another thing I like about her.
God, she’s irritating.
I stride past Sylveria and nod to my men at the door. Sylveria’s guards are still unconscious in two separate heaps. We hit the hallway, then the stairwell, all the way down to the car waiting outside.
Ella lets loose with a spew of truly impressive language—creative, vicious, and borderline poetic in how violently she strings the words together.
I’ve heard a lot of swearing in my life. This is new. I’m impressed. I fight the urge to smack her ass just to interrupt her, but I don’t know how badly she’s hurt, and the last thing I want is to cause more damage. She might be a thorn in my side, but I don’t want her bleeding.
We reach the car. I flip her around and lower her into the back seat, following close behind. She immediately explodes into motion, struggling like hell, her hair flying in every direction.
I grab a strand as it whips across my face and shut the door just as my driver peels away. “Your hair is soft,” I murmur.
She freezes for a beat. “You are a fucking asshole. Get me out of this stupid blanket.”
Amusement slips inside me. It’s unwelcome, but there it is, cutting under my skin like adrenaline.
I don’t get intrigued often. I definitely don’t get amused when someone’s this pissed at me.
But with her? It’s different. Her fury doesn’t push me away.
It pulls something to the surface, and somehow, her words don’t harm me. In fact, I feel better than ever.
Yeah, I need to fuck her out of my system. Once she feels better.
She flails again, and I’ve had enough.
I pluck her up and set her on my lap, locking her in with one arm. “Would you please behave yourself?”
“Behave myself?” she spits. “You just kidnapped me!”
“I saved you from your evil stepmother.”
She narrows her eyes at me, clearly recalibrating. She doesn’t trust me—not remotely—but she’s doing the math.
I decide to save her the trouble. “I’m the biggest threat.”
“That’s what I figure,” she mutters. “Why are you kidnapping me, Justice?” She sighs like she’s run out of an entire day’s worth of patience.
“We’ll discuss that later. I’m having my doctor take a look at you. I don’t trust your stepmother’s.”
She shifts slightly. “Why do you even care?”
“I need your help,” I say simply.
She blinks once, then twice. The blue of her eyes cuts through the shadows inside the car, sharp against the dimness. Rain taps against the roof like fingers drumming in warning, and the windows begin to fog. The air’s close now, tight. “My help?” she asks cautiously.
“Yeah. First, I want to know why you’re hacking into the Beaumont servers.”
“Not going to tell you.”