Chapter 26

Lisa

As soon as I send my message to Bambam, I open the door and step out into the alley behind the club. Immediately, the smell of garbage hits my nostrils, mixing with the pungent odor of urine. It must've rained while we were inside because the pothole-ridden asphalt is wet, the light from a distant street lamp reflecting in the oily-looking puddles.

Reining in my violent rage and worry, I methodically scan my surroundings. Later I will let myself think about Jennie's tear-streaked face and how badly I fucked up, but for now I need to focus on saving Rosé.

I owe her and Jennie that much.

I don't see anyone nearby, so I wind my way through the dumpsters, heading toward the street. A few rats scurry away at my approach. I wonder if they can sense the thrum of violence in my veins, the lust for blood that intensifies with every step I take.

One death was not enough. Not nearly enough.

My footsteps echo wetly as I round the corner, turning onto a narrow side street, and then I see it.

Two figures struggling by a white SUV some thirty yards away.

I can see the yellow of Rosé's dress as the man tries to drag her into the car, and black rage surges through me again.

Pulling out my knife, I sprint toward them.

I know the exact moment Rosé's attacker sees me. His eyes widen, his face twisting with fear, and before I can react, he shoves Rosé at me and scrambles into the car.

I put on a burst of speed, managing to catch Rosé before she falls, and she clutches at me, sobbing hysterically. I try to soothe her while extricating myself from her clinging grip, but it's too late.

The car starts up with a roar, and the tires squeal as Rosé's assailant slams on the gas, escaping like the coward that he is.

Fuck. I stare after the disappearing car, panting. I know my men are stationed at the intersection ahead, but a public shootout would draw too much attention. Holding Rosé with one arm, I pull out my phone and tell Bambam to follow the white car.

Then I turn my attention to the sobbing woman in my arms.

"Rosé." Ignoring the adrenaline pumping through me, I gently pull her away from me to view the extent of her injuries. One side of her face is swollen and crusted with blood, and there are scratches and bruises all over her body, but to my relief, I don't see any broken bones. She looks so shaken, though, that I pitch my voice low, speaking to her as I would to a child. "How badly are you hurt, sweetheart?"

"He . . . they . . ." She seems to be incoherent as she stands there trembling, her dress ripped open, and I grit my teeth, fighting a fresh swell of fury. I can already see that whatever happened to her is not something she'll easily get over.

"Come, sweetheart, let me take you back to Jennie." I keep my voice soft and soothing as I bend down to pick her up. Her shaking intensifies as I swing her up into my arms, and I clench my jaw tighter, walking back toward the alley as quickly as I can.

When we're in front of the door to the club, I lower Rosé to her feet. Then, holding her elbow for support, I carefully usher her through the doorway.

We're greeted by the sight of Jennie pointing the gun in our direction. The second she spots us, however, her face lights up and she lowers the weapon.

"Rosé!" She drops the gun and runs across the room to us. "You got her, Lisa! Oh, thank God, you got her!" Reaching us, she rises on her tiptoes and hugs me fiercely before wrapping her arms around Rosé and guiding her to the couch. I can hear her murmuring reassurances as Rosé clings to her, crying, and I use the opportunity to call for our car to come around to the alley.

A couple of minutes later, the car is ready.

"Come, baby. We have to go, get you both to the hospital," I say softly, approaching the couch, and Jennie nods, her arms still wrapped around Rosé's shaking frame. My wife seems much calmer now, her earlier hysteria nowhere in sight. Still, I have to fight the urge to grab her and make sure she's as all right as she seems. The only thing that stops me is the knowledge that Rosé will fall apart without Jennie's help.

Thankfully, my pet seems up to the task of dealing with her traumatized friend. That steel core I've always sensed within her has never been more evident than it is now. Even with the rage scorching my insides, I feel a flash of pride as I watch Jennie get Rosé off the couch and lead her toward the exit into the alley.

Bambam is leaning against the car, waiting for us. As his gaze falls on Rosé, I can see his face changing, his impassive expression transforming into something dark and frightening.

"Those fuckers," he mutters thickly, walking around the car to open the door for us. "Those motherfucking fuckers." He can't seem to stop staring at Rosé. "They're going to fucking die."

"Yes, they will," I agree, watching with some surprise as he carefully separates Rosé from my wife and guides the crying girl into the car. His manner is so uncharacteristically caring that I can't help wondering if there's something between the two of them. That would be odd, given his fixation on the Russian interpreter, but weirder things have happened.

Shrugging mentally, I turn to Jennie, who's standing by the open car door, her left hand gripping the top of the door frame. She seems lost in her own world, her gaze strangely distant as she lifts her right hand and places it on her belly.

"Jennie?" I step toward her, a sudden fear gripping my chest, and at that moment, I see her face go chalk-white.