It takes everything in me not to lunge for the gun. I see my own blank terror reflected in Emma’s pale face. Blood streaks from her nose, and she stands limp as a ragdoll, the pistol pressed against her belly.
“Agree to it,” Clarence says. “And we’ll take it from there.”
Agree to trading my woman? To trading my unborn child for our lives? It’s impossible. And when I resign and leave, Clarence will succeed Sampson. This is the man who will rule the most powerful crime syndicate in Scotland. This monster.
“Agree,” orders Clarence, his voice sharper and smile fading.
“I agree,” says Emma, and it’s like a knife between the ribs. “Spare us, and you can have me.” She turns slightly, lifting those beautiful eyes to his. Clarence slides his palm to the back of her neck, but the gun remains carefully in place. “I’m yours.”
Clarence grins. “Fuck, that’s hot. Come here. Prove you want me to take you, Emma.”
She obeys him, even though it guts me, even though it must be capsizing her conscience, her very soul. She is protecting the life of our unborn child. She is sacrificing everything. She rises on her toes and presses her lips to my brother’s.
Hate cinches tight as a noose around my neck. My gun is in reach, yet I am utterly impotent. Defenseless. Clarence grins as she kisses him, his eyes sliding to mine victoriously before closing. He draws her near, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She kisses him back with a familiar, if removed and bastardized, passion.
The gunshot comes as a shock, it seems, to all three of us.
Their lips are still touching when the percussion shatters the silence, bursting off the walls of the villa. A moment of horrible quiet follows, where my entire body seems unmoored, my heart weightless with horror and anticipation.
Then a rapidplip plip plipbecomes a thick, steady stream—blood so deep a red it could be black pouring onto the floorboards.
No.
I stand, hands outstretched—but it’s not Emma who drops to her knees, face full of blank, sincere surprise. It’s my brother.
He hits the floor like a ton of bricks. Emma backs away, shoulders shaking, pistol hanging loosely from one hand. Tears spill down her cheeks.
Clarence looks up at her in open shock. “You shot…me…”
It’s the last thing he says before pitching forward, blood expanding rapidly from his body. Emma’s knees quake, and I rush forward, catching her in my arms before she can fall. I take the gun, clutching her to me with one arm, staring at the unconscious and dying body of my brother.
“I’m sorry,” Emma sobs. “I’m sorry for all of it.”
I slide my hand into her hair, drawing her gently back so I can meet her eyes. “Don’t you ever apologize to me,” I whisper. “I love you.”
Her beautiful eyes widen. “I didn’t mean it,” she whispers. “Everything I said—I was just trying to save you, Malcom. I love you.”
“You did save me,” I say softly, gathering her into my arms. “But we’re not safe. Not yet. We have to go.”
“The body,” she says, her voice thin with fear. “And our fingerprints, the others—”
“I’ll take care of it,” I promise her. “From here on out, Emma, I will take care of everything.”
She gazes up at me, the terror slowly leaving her face. “You came.”
I nod, caressing her cheek with one palm. “I will always come for you.” I release her, letting her stand on her own, get her bearings. Then I offer her my hand.
This will never be forced again, what lives between us. From now on, everything Emma Rosen does will be by choice.
She takes my hand.
21
Emma
The night fades into surrealism, a delicate, paper-thin dream. I move through it all like a ghost.
Pete is dead. Both of his men survived. Barely, but they are alive. And Pete, kind, careful, Pete, is gone.
