Page 69 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Rather than doing as I said, she leaned between the front seats, grabbed the sword case from the passenger seat, and wrestled it into the back. Then she climbed through the gap.

“Gwen. Stop. Sit down.”

“I’m coming up front.” Her knee caught the center console, and she swore under her breath, but she kept coming, wedging herself through while I tried to keep the car in our lane and not shove her back.

“I told you to put on your seatbelt, not⁠—”

“I can’t see you from back there.”

She dropped into the passenger seat and pulled the belt across her chest. Her face was streaked with tears. Her hair had come loose from its bun and stuck to her cheeks. Her hands trembled so badly she needed three tries to fasten the buckle.

“There,” she said, her voice cracking. “Seatbelt’s on. Now pull over so I can check your arm.”

“We’re not pulling over.”

“At least let me see it.”

“Not yet. Not until I’m confident no one’s behind us.”

She stared at my forearm. The jacket sleeve was soaked below the elbow, blood running down to my fingers and dripping onto my thigh. “That’s a lot of blood, Arthur.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“It is not a scratch!” She pointed at the back seat. “And we need to make sure the sword’s okay. And I need to look at your arm!”

“You first. Everything else can wait.”

“Me?”

“You. Are you all right?”

She blinked rapidly at me before leaning back in her seat and pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. “No. I’m nowhere close to all right.”

The adrenaline was fading, and the pain was catching up. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but I’d had worse. I adjusted my grip on the wheel, and blood smeared across the leather.

You should have had backup.

“Are you hurt, Gwen?”

One man to get the car ready, one to take care of the principal and the sword. Fuck, if Lance had been with us, they wouldn’t have even attacked us.

Her shoulders heaved, and she was probably crying behind her hands now.

Two is safer than one, but you sent him to fucking Malta, you idiot.

Why?

Because the Malta source was important?

The Malta source could have fucking waited. We could have gone there first or last. We could have used the jet for Champagne and used it for Malta.

But no, I sent my best friend—her ex—to another country.

Because it was a low-risk job. You didn’t need two operators.

But it hadn’t turned out to be low-risk, and we needed two operators.

What do you know? Your daddy bought you a company you didn’t deserve.