Page 8 of Ruthless Enforcer

He killed a man to protect me.

That should terrify me. Instead, it turns me on.

I don't know what that says about me.

I glance at him. I’ve fantasized about Gabriel Reyes touching me for ten years. I'm discovering that reality is infinitely more dangerous than any fantasy I've ever had.

Exhaling, I wipe my hands on my ruined dress. "Where were my guards?"

"Good question."

The weight of that answer settles like lead in my gut. My security detail should have been right behind us. They should have intercepted the men in the corridor. They should have been here.

They weren't.

"You were right. They were compromised," I say quietly.

Gabriel's jaw tightens. "I think you're alive because you followed me instead of them."

The implication is clear, and it makes my stomach turn. If Gabriel wanted to kidnap me for ransom, he wouldn't need clumsy, hired muscle with syringes and knives. This isn't a Reyes hit. Someone else orchestrated this, and my own security either didn't see it coming or didn't care to stop it.

Considering both options, I stare straight ahead through the windshield as the sparse streetlights of Helena blur past and give way to the suffocating blackness of the open Montana highway.

My hands are locked in tight, white-knuckled fists against my thighs, trembling with the violent aftershock of adrenaline. I should be terrified. I should be demanding he take me to Uncle James.

But I'm not.

Gabriel’s right. I don’t know who’s after me or where I’m safe—except with him. My own security detail—the men Uncle James vetted and paid—were either bought, compromised, or conveniently absent when it mattered most.

I turn my head and look at the shadowed profile of my dark knight. His jaw is set, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his blue eyes fixed on the road with lethal focus.

My pulse is racing, but it isn't fear.

It's something far more complicated.

7

GABRIEL

Igive it eight miles of serpentine blacktop before I even consider taking my foot off the accelerator.

Nothing behind us. No trailing headlights, no low-altitude surveillance drones cutting through the tree line, no local sheriff cruisers responding to the three-round chorus that just echoed off the Helena museum district.

Just pitch-black Montana highway, towering lodgepole pines, and the steady, low growl of six hundred horses under the SUV's reinforced hood.

Beside me, Clara hasn't made a single sound.

No hysterical sobbing. No frantic questions about where we’re going or invoking her uncle’s name. Just the quiet, rhythmic sound of steady breathing and the faint, unmistakable rustle of wet silk against leather.

I kill the high beams and wrench the wheel hard to the right, easing the truck off the state route and down an overgrown logging spur half-swallowed by snowberry brush and Douglas firs. The undercarriage groans against the ruts until I tuck the vehicle fifty yards deep behind a rocky outcrop that shields us entirely from the road.

When I turn the engine off, the silence is immediate and complete—just the tick of cooling metal and the sound of Clara's breathing.

I turn to her, my chest tightening seeing the blood on her. I know it's not hers, but still.

What I need to know is whether she's going into shock.

I reach over and press two fingers against the inside of her wrist, feeling for her pulse. It's fast but steady, her skin cool because of the adrenaline crash that’s got to hit soon. Her green eyes track the movement, watching me with that same composed intelligence she showed in the gallery despite her dilated pupils.