HALE
GRACE’S WEIGHT settles into my arms as her eyes roll back in her head, her body going limp in my
grip as pain and blood loss drag her under.
My head spins with the sight of her, the smell of her, the feel of her against my body and in my
arms. Everything about her is familiar and foreign at the same damn time, and that strange dichotomy
creates a hot rush that goes straight from my head and settles with a dangerous calm in my bones. It
takes every ounce of willpower I have to set her down on the seat and not pull her into my lap, to feel
more of her, to touch every inch of her.
What the hell? Focus up, asshole.
I grit my teeth, annoyed at my own physical reaction.
I’ve hated Grace with every bone in my body for the past six years—her father is the reason my
uncle is rotting in prison for life, and the reason why everything went to shit six years ago.
Still, Grace has always held a power over me, one I’ve never quite understood. She didn’t even
know it all those years ago, but she had me on a string. Grace has always been beautiful—even when
she was younger, she was intriguing. Stunning. She made my heart flip every time I saw her, sending a
confusing mix of emotions rampaging through my chest.
Six years later, and she’s still the same Grace that she’s always been, but there’s something
different about her too.
Something even more dangerous than before.
Gone are her girlish looks, replaced with curves that could kill a man, lips that are meant for
nothing but sin.
Something I should not touch.
But just like everyone else in this van, even I’m not above lust.
Desire.
I pull myself away from the thoughts that consume me, trying to get my fucking head on straight. To
banish thoughts of how those curves would feel under my command. What noises those lips would
make. What she would taste like. Feel like.
Those thoughts have no place in my goddamn mind, because they’re dangerous. Grace represents
exactly what I don’t need right now.
Weakness.
Focus, Hale. Focus.
I assess her injuries, scanning her body for the source of her wounds. Her ivory dress is stained
with blood in multiple places. She’s either bleeding to death underneath the layers of fabric, or she’s
covered in someone else’s blood.
Maybe both.
The wound at her side is still pulsing little rivulets of blood in time to the beat of her heart, and I
wasn’t kidding about the possibility of her bleeding out. At least now that she’s unconscious, I can
take care of her wound without her fighting me.
I reach for a handful of her dress, ripping it from her bodice straight to her waist.
Fuck.
Lust and regret wash over me simultaneously as I realize what a fucking mistake that action was.
Of course she’s wearing a fucking set of bridal lingerie, picked out especially for that asshole of a
cop she was about to marry.
I try not to look, I really do.
But once I start, I can’t stop.
Straps of ivory frame her waist and hip bones, resting flush against her skin, leaving little to the
imagination. Her breasts are no better. Flowers made of delicate lace cover the soft, rosy buds of her
nipples, hiding them from view just enough to make my cock twitch.
Unconsciously I brush my thumb over her hip, plunging it under one of those little straps at her
waist, marveling at the softness of her skin.
“You could’ve just unzipped her dress,” Ciro says mildly from the front seat.
“Fuck off.”
Focus, focus, focus.
The church was a fucking nightmare, and it’s a fucking miracle she doesn’t have any more wounds
than she got. Most of the blood on her dress has started drying, showing me that it’s someone else's
blood—most likely her father’s.
I follow a fresh stream of blood, thick and clotting, up to her waist.
“She’s been shot. Just one bullet, as far as I can see.” I’m careful not to touch her again as I
observe the wound. “It’s just grazed her side, no shattered bones. Entered and exited.”
Without commenting, Ciro pops open the glove compartment and pulls out a box of medical
supplies we keep for quick fixes, tossing it back to me. Even though I know I need to keep my hands
away from her for my own goddamn sanity, I put pressure on her wound as I pop open the box,
shuffling through bandages, antiseptics, needles, and thread.
You don’t grow up in the mafia without dealing with this kind of shit from time to time, so we all
know the basics of fixing up wounds. Ciro’s better at injury assessment than I am, but he’s busy
looking over digital notes, probably trying to figure out what we’re all wondering—what the hell
went wrong today?
“You’ll probably have to do stitches when we get back, Ciro.” A bullet wound, especially one
where the bullet isn’t embedded in her, is an easy fix, but stitches aren’t my specialty. “I’ll do what I
can for now.”
A thud from the back of the van pulls my attention away from Grace. I look up just as Lucas
speaks.
“Yeah. This fucker’ll live too. At least for now.” He wipes his bloody hands on his pants,
stepping toward the front row of seats.
We’ve modified the back of the van, taken out the seats to leave an empty space back there. It’s
useful for transporting prisoners or cargo, and it gives us more options in a pinch. Right now, a man’s
body is slumped on the floor, his hands bound in shackles that connect to a bar on the side wall of the
van.
Not that this asshole is going anywhere anytime soon. Our captive looks almost dead, although if
Lucas says he’ll live, I believe him.
“Who the hell is he?” Zaid asks, glancing into the review mirror to catch his brother’s eye.
Even Ciro glances back at Lucas. We were all so focused on getting the hell out of that church
before the cops showed up that we haven’t even dealt with the most important question—who the hell
was the second group that crashed the goddamn wedding?
It was supposed to be an easy job.
Get in, grab Samuel Weston—or Samuel Taylor, as he’d started going by—and get the fuck out.
We weren’t supposed to take Grace.
And we weren’t supposed to get shot at by another group of gunmen who were obviously well
trained and well organized.
When everything started to go to shit, I gave the evacuation order, aborting the mission. Our target
was gone anyway. I saw Samuel get shot, and I know he didn’t fucking survive that.
Grace would’ve died too, if I hadn’t killed the man who was about to take her down.
As for why I took her with me?
Well, I’ll tell my father it’s because I wasn’t leaving the church without at least one member of the
Weston family... even if I’m not entirely sure that’s the only reason I threw her over my shoulder.
“I dunno who the fuck he is.” Lucas jerks his head toward the man in the back. While I was busy
chucking Grace into the van, he and Ciro grabbed a downed soldier from the other group and threw
him in the back. “He’s barely conscious, and I didn’t want to rough him up too bad and risk killing
him.”
It’s a good call. If we can keep him alive until we reach the safe house, we can patch him up a
little and then let Ciro have a go at him. Interrogation is my second-in-command’s specialty, and he
approaches each job with a methodical precision that’s both impressive and slightly stomach-turning
to watch.
“Fuck. Bullet grazed me.” Lucas swipes his hands on his pants again before poking at a small
wound on his arm. He glances over at me. “Toss me some of those bandages.”
I throw him a roll, and he begins to patch himself up one-handed, his gaze snagging on Grace as
he does. He stills, and I can practically read the thoughts in his head—see his body flood with the
same awareness I felt when I first looked at her. A sudden flare of jealousy tears through my chest. It’s
been a long time since we’ve all seen Grace, but I hate the annoyance and possessiveness that rises
inside me like a beast as I watch him watch her.
She’s not mine to possess.
She never fucking was.
And she never should be.
Reaching for the antiseptic, I pop it open, trying to focus back on my task and not on the thoughts
clearly written on the lines of Lucas’s face. Or in my head.
“This is going to hurt, sweetheart,” I murmur, even though I know she’s dead to the fucking world.
Then I pour the liquid onto her wound to clean it.
Lucas and I cringe as her body immediately tenses in pain despite her unconsciousness, curling
into herself. Her eyes flutter and her mouth falls open slightly, her back arching against the pain.
Swallowing, a sudden mad desire consumes me to see her do that again—not in pain, but in
pleasure. My gaze tracks a path from the column of her throat to the swell of her breasts, my heart
thudding in my chest. The pretty little gag around her pale lips makes me imagine all sorts of fucked
up situations, all sorts of ways I want to fuck her.
Where I want to have her.
How I want to fuck her.
Would you beg for me? Would you beg me to make you scream? What would you look like when
you finally gave in? The thoughts burn in my mind as my hand reaches out, brushing the gag.
Fuck.
Realizing what I’m doing, I yank my hand back and finish bandaging her wounds quickly, my touch
rough and callous. Then I shift over on the seat, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.
The cramped van seats don’t offer much space.
“Did you get anything out of him?” I turn my attention back to Lucas, refocusing on what’s
important in this moment. “Who does he work for?”
“I have no clue. He was only lucid for a few seconds, and he didn’t give anything up.”
“What the fuck was he doing at the wedding?” I grit my teeth, the adrenaline that surged through
me inside the church rushing back. “Actually, while we’re on the topic, someone want to tell me who
the fuck compromised our mission?”
There’s a moment of quiet tension as we all contemplate the shit storm that happened back at the
church. It’s amazing we all made it out of there alive, and maybe I should feel more grateful for that.
But right now, rage is burning too hot through my veins to feel grateful for anything. What was
supposed to be an easy in and out job turned into a shit show. Because what we were supposed to do
was simply take Grace’s father and bring him back to Chicago, not cause a fucking bloodbath.
We’ve been looking for Grace and her father since they escaped six years ago, and when their
location was finally discovered, Zaid, Lucas, Ciro, and I volunteered for the collection mission. It
wasn’t even a fucking question. It was our duty. It was our right.
Samuel Weston was supposed to be ours.
“I don’t have a clue who the other group was.” Lucas breaks the silence. “Didn’t recognize a
single one of them.”
“How did they even get there?” Zaid clenches his fingers against the steering wheel. He’s just as
irritated as the rest of us, but his focus stays on the road, alert for any signs of someone following us.
“We searched for Weston for six years. Our syndicate is the only one that found out where he was and
what he was doing. We have a rat on the inside. Someone is giving out information.”
“And now Weston is fuckin’ dead.” Ciro grunts. “That seems to be the real problem.”
The van goes quiet again, and we all know he’s right.
Not only is our target dead, but our mission was compromised, and we potentially have a traitor
on the inside. For years, we’ve built a reputation of fear and respect around my family’s name, and
everyone knows it’s a bad fucking idea to try to cross us.
Whoever this rogue group is, they’ve just asked for war.
And that’s exactly what they’ll get.