Vegarro “Vega” Moretti
I had been prepared to deal with fear. I hadn’t been prepared for Sonnet to fight like she had been waiting her entire life to whoop some ass. She twisted in my arms, kicked at my legs, and snapped her teeth toward any part of me they could reach.
I had expected fear, but I hadn’t expected fury from her nerdy ass.
“Stop fighting,” I ordered.
“Fuck you!”
She drove her heel down toward my foot again. I moved it before she landed it and tightened my arm around her waist.
This woman didn’t listen for shit. I could’ve overpowered her easily, but strength wasn’t the problem.
I was trying to restrain her without bruising her ribs, dislocating a shoulder, or knocking her head against the wall.
Every time I adjusted my hold to protect her, she treated the opening like another chance to escape.
The vibrating phone in my pocket made the decision for me.
I had placed a motion sensor near the service entrance I’d entered through before coming upstairs. One vibration meant somebody had entered the building through that door.
Roman’s men were most likely here.
Sonnet threw her head backward again. I turned just before she caught my nose. “Let me go!”
“I can’t.”
She froze for less than a second. Then she started fighting harder.
I reached into the inside pocket of my jeans and pulled out the sedative injector I had brought as a last resort.
I hadn’t wanted to use it. Drugs affected people differently, and I preferred dealing with a conscious target because I could watch her reactions and know she was breathing correctly. But Sonnet left me no choice.
“I’m sorry,” I said in advance.
Her eyes widened behind her crooked glasses. “Don’t you fucking touch me.” Then she tried to bite me again.
I pressed the injector against her upper arm through her blouse and activated it.
Sonnet cursed, twisted, and managed to rake her nails across my wrist before the medication began working.
“What did you just do to me?”
“Calm your feisty ass down.”
Her voice lost some of its strength. “You drugged me?!”
“I’m getting you out of here.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” But her body disagreed.
The fight began leaving her in stages. Her legs stopped kicking first. Then her hands loosened around my forearm. Her head tipped back against my shoulder as she struggled to keep her eyes open.
She looked up at me through the mask. “Who are you?”
I didn’t answer. I watched her lashes lower, lift once, then lower again.
The second her body went limp, something inside me reacted. I pulled her closer before she could slide from my arms. One hand supported the back of her head while the other held her securely around the waist. The need to protect her came immediately and stronger than anything I’d ever felt before.
It made no sense, because I was the reason she needed protection. Still, the thought of Roman’s men reaching her made every violent instinct I possessed rise to the surface. She felt too soft in my arms, too unaware of what was happening around her.
I removed the mask and shoved it into my pocket. Then I checked her pulse and listened to her breathing.
My phone vibrated again, meaning they were getting closer.
I lifted her into my arms and grabbed her tote from the floor. Carrying an unconscious woman through the main hallway would’ve been stupid. Her building had a receptionist, cameras, secured doors, and enough residents to make a clean exit difficult.
That was why I had prepared another route.
Earlier, the electronic lock on the service door had been easy to bypass, but the interior camera beside it had required more planning. A looping signal now showed an empty corridor instead of anything happening in real time.
I carried Sonnet through her kitchen and into the narrow laundry room. The utility door at the rear opened into a staff corridor shared by the units on her floor. Most residents probably didn’t know it existed. But I did.
The corridor was dim, concrete, and empty.
I pulled the door closed behind us and headed toward the service stairwell instead of the elevator.
The public elevators required key access and recorded every floor.
The service stairs led directly to the basement parking level without passing the front desk.
Sonnet’s head rested against my chest as I moved down the stairs. Her hair smelled faintly like vanilla and whatever shampoo she used. One of her hands lay against my shirt, harmless now, though the scratches on my face proved how much damage it could do when she was awake.
The sound of a door opening above me made me stop. Men’s voices carried into the stairwell.
Roman’s people had reached her floor.
I continued downward, moving quickly without allowing Sonnet’s head or legs to strike the railing. By the time they discovered her condo empty, I needed to be gone.
The basement level had two exits. One led into the residents’ garage, where cameras tracked every vehicle. The other opened into a delivery bay used for trash collection and building supplies.
I chose the delivery bay. My truck waited behind the neighboring property, out of view of the building’s security system. I crossed the narrow service lane with Sonnet in my arms and placed her carefully across the back seat.
I secured her seat belt and placed her tote on the floor.
I got behind the wheel and pulled away and checked the rearview mirror.
Sonnet remained unconscious.
Looking at her, I smiled because she had fought harder than most men I had handled.
Now she was my responsibility. But I couldn’t understand why that thought felt less like business and more like a promise.