“Didn’t,” he gags out. “Plates.”
I ease the pressure. “What?”
“I got the plates, you psycho fuck. Let me go.”
I snarl in his face, but Frankie’s not the problem here. I step back, releasing him. “Call for a cleaning crew. I want this handled.”
“You need a hospital.”
“Fuck that. I need a drink and a change of clothes.”
“Stellan. Seriously. You’re bleeding.”
“Isak Vural just tried to kill me again.” I stare at Frankie before turning away, facing the burning cars. “War’s here.”
KIRA
I’m bone tired when I get back to the house after my shift. I lurk out front, uncomfortable with just going right inside. But it’s my place too, right?
I chew my lip. Gem’s back at the apartment. She’s safe and sound. I’m not worried about her. I could go stay there too, but I have a feeling Stellan will like it more if I’m here tonight.
Since when do I care what he wants?
“Screw it,” I mutter and storm into the house. Stellan’s security system uses biometrics and it clicks open when I touch the handle.
The interior’s dim. But I get why Gem loves the place. It’s absolutely beautiful. There’s a big bay window overlooking the front street and lots of gleaming wood. The panels must’ve been lovingly carved a long time ago. The carpets are rich and lush, and the floors make very soft creaking sounds. I imagine years and years of feet treading these same paths over and over again.
Hard to see Stellan in this place. I expected something sleeker and more modern from him. Like a high-rise condo or whatever. Instead, this house reeks of history.
I feel a little strange standing all alone in the foyer, at least until I hear a noise upstairs.
I pause, listening closely, heart racing suddenly.
It’s the water running. And someone grunting with frustration.
Sighing, I start up the stairs. Somehow that grunt has become all too familiar. Despite my best efforts.
I find Stellan in the bathroom standing in front of the mirror. His shirt is off and his pants look like they were dipped in a campfire. He’s dabbing at minor cuts all over his neck and face, putting some kind of antiseptic on them. He’s grimacing and looks like he’s right on the edge of killing someone.
“Is this going to be a pattern?” I ask.
He doesn’t react. I’m a little disappointed when I realize he knew I was there. “In what way?”
“You show up randomly at night and need medical care?”
“You might want to get used to it.”
I gently check his wounds. Nothing looks too bad, though the burn on his leg probably needs a real doctor. “I can’t really do much for you.”
“That’s fine. I don’t need stitches.”
“What happened?”
“You really don’t want to know.”
“Actually, I do.” I touch his bare shoulder. The muscle is thick and strong. I glance at his chest and run my eyes over the black, dangerous tattoos. Scars and puckered flesh litter his exposed torso. This is a man who is very used to pain.
“Someone tried to kill me. They didn’t do a good job.”
