7. Lance
7
LANCE
I t’s past dinnertime, and Quinn still isn’t home.
And while Killian and Natasha seem wrapped up in their own little world, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s terribly wrong.
I cast a glance toward the front door for what must be the hundredth time, my half-eaten lobster growing cold on its plate. But I can’t seem to find my appetite.
“Not hungry tonight, Mr. Knight?” Cheryl asks as she and Henry enter the dining room to collect our dinner plates and replace them with sorbet.
Killian glances toward my food and shakes his head. “Quinn’s fine, Lance. She texted me an hour ago that she’s still out shopping.”
“She doesn’t miss lobster,” I say, forcing the words past the iron grip of tension around my throat.
“She probably decided to have dinner with her friends. She hasn’t seen them in a while and might’ve wanted to stay and catch up,” Killian counters. “Besides, she was in a mood this morning. I wouldn’t put it past her to stay out later to make a point. You know how much she hates it when I try to curb her freedom.”
“She should have taken a guard with her,” I growl, that feeling of agitation in my gut growing stronger.
“You tell her next time. She might actually listen to you,” Killian jokes, and he turns his attention back to Natasha.
I love my foster brother. I would do anything for him. But sometimes, I want to beat the humor right out of him. And right now is one of those times.
“I set some lobster aside for her,” Cheryl says kindly, patting my shoulder.
I give her a silent nod, knowing she’s trying to comfort me. But I just can’t let it go. Something’s off. I glance toward Killian’s phone placed face up on the table—because as much as he wants to take her absence lightly, I know he was starting to worry before Quinn sent that text.
But for whatever reason, it hasn’t calmed my tension at all. And I glare at the black screen, willing Quinn to call and prove my unnerving instinct wrong.
As if in answer to my command, his screen lights up.
Killian reaches for it a little too quickly to be as indifferent as he pretended, and Natasha’s careful gaze watches as he answers and holds it to his ear. “Yeah.”
Not how he would answer the phone for Quinn, and the tension in my shoulders escalates.
“What the hell?” Killian’s eyes flash to mine as he stands so abruptly from his chair that it falls backward, clattering against the floor.
Cheryl jumps beside me, her palm going to her breast in surprise.
I’m on my feet in an instant, my fists balling as I brace for a fight.
“We’ll be right there,” he says and ends the call. “That was the front gate guard. Quinn was dropped off there. He said I need to come out immediately.”
“It could be a trap,” Natasha says, rising from the table as well, her movements demonstrating a catlike grace.
“I’m going with you,” I state, practically herding Killian toward the door as I follow closely on his heels.
We walk because the Bugatti won’t fit us all and Scott’s out with the Escalade—probably still waiting in the city since Quinn was dropped off.
Natasha joins us, her steps light compared to Killian’s pounding beats as we race toward the gate. My hand remains on my firearm tucked into the back of my pants because the younger Sokolov sister is right. It could be a trap.
But when I see Quinn’s slim figure sprawled on the concrete, all sense of caution evaporates.
The gate guard stands from his crouch beside her, stepping forward to meet us. I scarcely hear what he has to say, though, as Killian and I drop to the ground as we reach her. A smattering of bruises circle her wrists and ankles. With several more dotting her legs, arms, and face. Angry welts cover her limbs. And a small trickle of blood runs down her temple from her hairline.
But what terrifies me most is how utterly still she is.
“Quinn. Quinny,” Killian says cupping her cheek.
“I think she’s unconscious,” the gate guard says, strain making his tone tight and high.
“Who did this?” Killian snarls, his gaze snapping toward the guard.
“Th-they said they were with someone named Lucian. They wanted me to give you a message.”
“What is it?” Killian demands as I feel for a pulse on her wrist.
And relief floods my body when I find it thrumming, strong and steady, through her veins.
“She’s alive,” I murmur, and I lean in to gently scoop her up off the sidewalk. She weighs next to nothing and looks terrifyingly fragile as I lift her in my arms. For the first time in forever, I feel helpless. Someone I care about more than anything in the world—someone I would give my life to protect—was hurt. Badly. Sudden and intense rage floods my chest. I want to destroy whoever is responsible.
“They said the Kings need to keep their noses out of Don Lucian’s business—the Sokolov empire will be his, and if you don’t want to lose your sister for good, you’ll stay out of it,” the guard says, his voice halting as he repeats the message reluctantly—as if he wants no part of whatever “business” Lucian and the Kings are involved in.
Killian comes to a stand beside me, Natasha following our movements as she continues to scan the dark street beyond the gates. And as I cradle Quinn close to my chest, she reminds me of the young girl she once was.
Her face is smooth and slack in her unconsciousness, her skin so pale it makes the smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks stand out. She better not be seriously injured, or whoever dared to hurt her will suffer a slow and painful death.
I want nothing more than to wrap my fingers around Lucian Agosti’s throat right now, knowing that this was done at his command.
“Let’s get her inside,” Killian says, his voice low and soft and deadly as he brushes the stray locks of hair back from Quinn’s face. His eyes burn with the same infernal fury blazing in my chest.
The trudge back to his brightly lit mansion is tense as he calls Scott to question him and informs him to come home.
And all the while, I can’t tear my eyes from Quinn’s pale complexion for longer than a moment. I hate this powerless feeling, the intense sense of failure. Because I wasn’t there to protect her. I should have been.
I carry her down the hall to her wing of the house, and Killian opens the door to her room, his expression grave. Maybe it’s me, but in the light, she looks even more frail. I lay her gently onto her bed, careful not to jostle her. And a spike of fear lances through me as I wonder if I shouldn’t have moved her at all. If she has any severe internal injuries, I could have made them worse.
But I hated seeing her on the ground like that.
“She’s covered in welts and bruises,” Killian growls, turning her wrists over to reveal the red and deep-black-and-purple marks.
The bruise on her cheek looks swollen, the faint outline of fingerprints marking her beautiful skin. Someone slapped her. Hard. And my hackles rise as I think of anyone daring to lay a hand on her.
“I’ll call my family doctor,” Natasha says. “He’s made house calls at this time of night before. He’ll do it for me.”
Killian gives a curt nod, then he starts to pace at the foot of Quinn’s bed. That same seething restlessness pounds through my veins, but I can’t bring myself to leave Quinn’s side. My protective instincts are in overdrive, my senses attuned to the vulnerable young woman lying unconscious on her bed.
But I turn my head to watch my foster brother as he works himself into a rage.
“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill them all,” he snarls.
Killian’s as close to losing it as he’s ever come because it’s his kid sister. And Quinn’s normally the one who handles nursing questions. I don’t know what to do for her, and right now, fighting won’t solve anything. She needs a doctor, and I’m grateful to Natasha for having come up with such a quick solution.
In the meantime, I turn and lean over Quinn, gently parting her silken blond hair so I can find where the blood is coming from. She has a good-sized lump on her head with a small laceration. But it’s not too deep, and based on the injuries I’ve sustained in the past and Quinn’s assessment of them, I think she might get away with not having stitches.
It feels like it takes the doctor hours to arrive, though he rings the doorbell less than forty-five minutes after Natasha makes the call, and she leads him to Quinn’s bedroom where Killian and I stand watch over her.
With the doctor here, I finally step back to give him space to work. He’s methodical and gentle, checking each of her welts, bruises, and abrasions before turning his attention to the lump on her head. He opens her eyelids and flashes a penlight to check their reaction. After cleaning each of her cuts and closing the one on her scalp with butterfly tape, he finally removes his rubber medical gloves with a snap, bringing his exam to a close.
“She’ll be okay,” he says gently. “For all her bumps and bruises, I don’t think she’ll have any lasting damage. Though, I want you to call me right away if she wakes in considerable pain. Otherwise, I think she just needs rest. She does have a minor concussion and will need to take it easy for a few days. You can give her acetaminophen for the pain, but avoid ibuprofen or any painkillers that would increase her risk of bleeding.”
“Thank you, Dr. Miller,” Natasha says, following him toward the door.
“For you, my girl, anything.” He gives her a soft smile, then a respectful nod to me and Killian before departing.
Only then can I release the breath it feels like I’ve been holding since we got the call from the front-gate guard earlier this evening. Killian and I share a look that expresses both the same sense of relief to know Quinn will be okay and the grim determination to punish those who hurt her.
Then we settle in to wait, occupying her desk chair and the one before her vanity as we stay to watch over her. I don’t think either of us is willing to leave her side until she wakes. I want to hear what happened, who took her—if she recognized any of them—and whatever lead we might get from her first-hand account.
But more than that, I still desperately need to hear from her own lips that she’s alright.
Until then, the knot in my stomach will remain.
We sit in almost complete silence, allowing her to rest. And as the hours slowly tick by, I feel the weight of sleep nagging at the back of my mind. But I refuse to turn in until we’ve had a chance to speak with Quinn. And I definitely don’t want her to wake up all alone.
She’s been through enough trauma for one day.
It’s well past midnight when a pained groan issues from the bed, and I sit up, suddenly alert as Quinn stirs. Her head turns, her face pinching in an expression of discomfort.
Then she sits up so suddenly, it makes me jolt.
She doesn’t pause to take in her surroundings. I don’t think she even sees me or Killian in the room before she’s on her feet, bolting toward the door as if on pure instinct. And she’s past her brother before he has a chance to catch her.
As I’m closer to the door, I stand quickly and wrap an arm around her waist before she can get too far. “Easy, Quinn. I’ve got you,” I murmur, pulling her close to my chest.
And she shudders violently as the fight leaves her in an instant. Burying her face in my shoulder, Quinn sobs. Enfolding her in my arms, I hold her fiercely, and glance up to share a stunned look with Killian.
Quinn’s shaking so hard, it’s making my teeth rattle, and her quivering body nearly undoes me. I’ve never seen her fall apart like this.
“Oh my God, I was so scared,” she breathes between sobs.
Fresh anger rips through me, turning my vision red. I’m more furious than I’ve ever been in my life.
I’ll kill every last one of the Italians for laying a hand on Quinn.