“I’ve only been in Scotland once,” she says, “I never got to see Edinburgh. Do you have family here, too?”
“Edinburgh is the MacTavish Clan’s home base,” I explain, “though with a family as enormous as ours, we’ve got assorted second cousins and random aunties and uncles scattered all over Scotland.” The chopper lands on the roof of an office building and I lift Sloan out.
“Is this one of your family’s buildings?” she asks. Patrick, who joined us on this little jaunt is carrying her medical equipment with a frown. He hates any activity that doesn’t allow him to hold his gun.
“No, I borrowed a friend’s landing pad on their building. In case any arseholes are staking out MacTavish properties.”
“That makes sense.”
I’ve been concerned that the flight would be too much for her, but she’s walking well with a little help. A bit of a shame, that. I enjoyed having an excuse to carry her around.
She’s silent as I help her into a heavily armored SUV, though she snickers a bit at the heavy ‘clunk!’ when I close the door.Snicker all ya like, love,I think.I’m taking no chances with you.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In which Ethan uses the "old-fashioned" way to break a fever.
Sloan…
“What is this place?”
I’m strolling around the apartment, the entire fourth floor of an old-fashioned stone and brick building. The architecture is almost medieval, with rounded arched columns and thick walls. There’s a bit of Gothic in there too, with the gargoyles perched on each corner of the building.
This place feels better than Ethan’s fancy penthouse in Glasgow. The warm brick and shining oak floors are welcoming, and the enormous stained-glass windows in the living room send shards of colored light over the leather couches and carved wood tables and bookshelves. I note that these shelves are crammed with all kinds of books, like the little library I relied on in his guest room when I was being held prisoner.
Am I still being held prisoner?
The dynamic between Ethan and I has whiplash twists and turns. The sexy man who ravished me in Club Vice to the coldlyamused kidnapper on the jet, to the competent, courageous hero who ferried me safely through the mountains. Then, of course, Cold and Scary as Hell Ethan when he captured me again to the caring and protective man who fought off an insane amount of rabid Irish mafia men.
Just thinking about all the lighting fast changes is enough to give me vertigo.
The current Ethan (whichever one he is today) is leaning against the granite kitchen counter, checking texts and watching me explore the apartment. Which Ethan is this?
“I like this place, it feels cozier,” I say, running my hand over a carved wooden pillar.
“I’d say this is a safe house, because there’s no paper trail leading to the MacTavish Clan, but since there’s half a dozen family members living in the building, it’s not exactly a secret. But I have another place out on the coast, that’s where anyone trying to track us would go.” He puts away his phone and gives me his full attention, which is always a little unnerving.
“So…” I’m trying to think of a polite way to ask him what the hell he has planned for me, but he beats me to it.
“I need a shower,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have someone coming by to stock the fridge for us. You, however, need to lie down and let me hook you back up to your IV and oxygen.”
“I don’t need it!” I protest. I am pretty tired, but the memory of huddling in that tub and crying yesterday while bullets flew everywhere makes me feel weak, useless.
“Do it for me, aye? Then I can take a minute without being concerned for your safety.”
“You’re trying to guilt-trip me? Really?”
The worst part? It’s working. I know he’s exhausted and that whole explosions, guns, and stabbing episode yesterday isn’t helping.
Taking me by the arm, he leads me over to the big sectional and covers me with a soft blanket, hooking up my IV and oxygen as if he does this every day. Maybe he does, I don’t know what’s required as an assassin for the MacTavish Mafia. When he hands me a bottle of water and the TV remote, I give up protesting his high-handedness.
“Patrick’s here if ya need anything.” Then he has theaudacityto stroll away, pulling off his shirt and exposing all those muscles. Good lord, it’s like his giant muscles are giving birth to baby muscles while I watch. The beautifully detailed wings on his back flex and move, almost looking like he’s about to take flight.
I wish I could fly away.
Just fly away from everything and live on the beach in Costa Rica with my brother and Carmella. Falling asleep on the couch, I dream of wings and water and Nate smiling at me, healthy and whole again.
“Darlin’ time to wake up…”
