Delgado had taken her.
Paraded her. Auctioned her.
Let men paw at her.
And I hadn’t ended him. Not yet.
But I would.
I would rip every inch of his empire apart until there was nothing left but ash, and then I’d torture and murder him. It was the least I could do to a man with no code of honor.
It didn’t take long to reach my building. We had looped wide, taken two different turns through Midtown, and changed lanes often enough that I was confident we hadn’t been followed. My penthouse was the safest place in the city, and for now, it was the only place to keep her protected.
The SUV rumbled into the underground garage. Rory glided to a halt right outside the elevator entryway. I stepped out and opened the rear door. Lyla hadn’t moved.
She remained curled up in the seat, arms wrapped tight around her middle, pale and apprehensive. Her eyes tracked me, but she didn’t speak. She hadn’t made a sound since she had fallen from the rigging like some goddamn broken angel.
I crouched and unbuckled her seat belt.
“Come here,” I said softly, sliding my arms beneath her.
She didn’t fight it.
She barely even breathed.
I lifted her into my arms, careful to angle her body toward my chest, shielding her exposed body as best I could. Rory and the others would guard the perimeter and wrap up the scene. As for me, I had one mission—protect her.
The elevator opened the moment I scanned my biometrics.
We rose fast.
She still didn’t make a sound.
By the time I carried her into the penthouse, her teeth were chattering from the cold night air and the terror she’d just witnessed. The place was quiet. I stepped past the security foyer, past the living room and bar, and headed toward the guest suite on the other side of the apartment.
I went straight into the en suite bathroom and set her gently on the marble vanity. She wobbled slightly but stayed upright, her arms still clutching her middle. I moved to the towel rack, grabbed one, and returned to her.
Gently, I draped it over her lap, covering her as best I could.
Her eyes never left me.
“You’re safe now,” I whispered.
She blinked once.
I crouched in front of her, then pushed the towel up just enough to see her inner thigh.
Fuck.
There was a claw mark, red and raw, with dried blood smeared halfway down her leg. Someone had grabbed her there, dug their fingers in like she was nothing but prey.
I schooled my features to avoid frightening her any further as the pulse in my throat throbbed. No man would ever lay hands on her again. Not ever.
Every inch of her flawless skin was mine to protect.
I reached for the first aid kit in the drawer under the counter and pulled out a sterile cloth and some antiseptic.
When I turned back, her legs were tense.
