My hand reaches for the door.
A tight, iron-clad grip clamps around my arm.
I’m yanked back, away from the cab, away from safety.
Straight into cruel hands.
FIFTEEN
declan
Marlowe is really testingmy patience.
I tear down the sidewalk at a dead run, lungs burning, boots hitting concrete in a steady, punishing rhythm. Thank fuck for Mikey. He was on emergency-exit watch. He tailed her. He told me where she went.
And then he let me know someone followed her.
“Fuckingeejit,”I snarl—at myself as much as her.
I could’ve cut this off the second she slipped out the back of that restaurant. Could’ve blocked her, hauled her back to my side, ended it before it had a chance to start. But no. I was too busy listening to whispers about the redhead, about how she’s “probably Marlowe,” about whether being “married” to a Murphy makes her untouchable.
It does. Mostly.
But no matter how protected she is now, the whispers still follow…how she tried to rat, tried to help those who want her father. He’s gone. He owes big. They let him go because men like Briggs are worth more than money if you keep them breathing. Information flows easier from a man who’s desperate and still alive. Especially when his wife swims in high-society circles.
Right now, I’ve got a lot to clean up. The rumors. The photo. The fucking police-issued gun I lifted and never gave to Torin. Maybe that’s a blessing. Maybe not. All I know is if I don’t clear Molly’s name and we walk away from this farce of a marriage, she’ll be a scapegoat and a pawn twice over.
But first, I’ve got to save her pretty arse from whoever snatched her.
I sprint into the park, eyes scanning the shadows.
I spot her almost instantly, pinned against a tree, dress torn, bare back scraping against bark. A big bastard in a long coat and hat has her trapped, one hand on her, the other fumbling for more underneath the ripped fabric. He shoves the skirt up, reaching for what’s about to become his last mistake.
Fury ignites in my chest, a bright, clean burn that’s ready to incinerate.
I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I just launch myself at him, my boot crushing his ribs, knocking him off her and onto the grass.
“If ye so much asthoughtabout touching her where you shouldn’t,” I snarl, “I’ll kill ye.”
His face twists, eyes full of something ugly, something greedy. This isn’t random. This is hunger. Obsession.
And she’s mine.
Mine.
“You can have her after I’ve had my fill,” he sneers.
I barely feel myself move. The gun somehow appears in my hand, barrel aimed between his eyes.
Behind me, Molly makes broken little sounds, like wounded-animal noises that hook right into my spine.
“We can double-team her, use?—”
I pull the trigger. Once.
Her scream rips across the park as the bastard stills. For a second everything goes silent in my head. I stand there, chest heaving, listening for footsteps, shouts, witnesses.
But there’s nothing. We’re alone. Thank fuck for the silencer.
