“Thank you,” I murmur, getting to my feet and turning to run back to the meeting room, but Jenna’s voice pulls me back.
“Saint.” Her voice breaks. I turn to look at her over my shoulder. “Gina has my number, if I can help with…”
“We’ll call.”
I rush my way through the wing when Grace slowly inches from one of the medical rooms, my dad and Regina behind her.
“What’s going on?” she asks, nervously looking at me and hearing the shouts and slams from the floor beneath us. Men and women are kitted up as if there’s an attack on home soil, and radios are clicking on and off with static.
Dad told me he tiptoed round everything he could during the drive back. He’s a fast thinker, knows how to talk someone off the ledge.
Grace Kent was apparently the hardest person he’s had to tug back; two hands were needed.
He’s managed to keep Indie and Regina’s double life secret, and unfortunately had to make out Louisa is an innocent bystander.
I’m sure Indie has fucking magnificent plans for her now.
And I’ll do whatever it takes to help her, even if it means fabricating an entire cover story on how her sister got caught up in all this,sadlymeeting her demise through Barry.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do when it comes to what my woman wants.
No matter how sick and morally wrong she wants it.
After all, it’s her that’ll help me rule hell.
“They’re bringing our girl back, Grace. Come on, I know someone who’ll be happy to see you just down the hall,” Regina says to her, taking her arm and giving her a gentle smile as they walk past me.
“Jenna?” Grace whispers. The look on her face when Dad told her that leaving the car flashes through my mind; that was the moment she almost passed out again.
It looks like it might happen again.
So many secrets, lies and fucked-up shit has happened between us all. It’s a fucking wonder none of us need a psych check.
23
Saint
toxic - 2wei
Igrabthebalaclavaand stuff it into my pocket, tighten my bulletproof vest and slam the armoury door shut in my room, and secure the strap of the rifle round my back.
Both my palms press against the cool surface of the door, and I let my head dip between my shoulder blades.
Indie’s been gone for almost twenty hours.
Twenty.
Fucking.
Hours.
She could be hurt, she could have been fucking raped, she could be…
She could be fucking dead.
My fists pummel into the door, punches rapidly smashing through the wood until it cracks in two and my next blow has me elbow deep in a hole I’ve made.
I yank it back out, knuckles split and bloody and covered in splinters, battling to get my laboured breathing under control as my shoulders heave.
