Page 95 of Scars Run Deep

I swung my head to see a very bloodied Asher there, shaking his head at me.

“You didn’t see, you didn’t see what him and that piece of shit over there were doing to her. He deserves this.”

“I don’t doubt it, sweetheart. But you don’t.”

I scoffed. “I can handle it.”

His grip around my arm tightened. “You can’t. You can’t imagine the price for exacting this kind of brutal punishment.”

I turned back to the guard.

“What if your father could see you now? What would he say? What would he think?”

Damn him.

I snarled at the guard, then pushed back to my feet.

Asher took the gun from my hand and gestured at the girl with his free one.

“The living room is clear. Take her out of here.”

He snatched up a t-shirt that was hanging off the back of a kitchen chair, then handed it to me. “Give her some of her dignity back.”

I stared at him for a moment, incredulous that in the midst of all of this, he was showing care for this girl.

And then I snapped into action and helped the girl into the t-shirt, then led her out of the kitchen and into the living room.

I was surprised to find twenty-odd others gathered on the couches, some on the rugs, wrapped up in blankets and oversized t-shirts too.

Asher had cleared the entire house already and brought the hostages down from upstairs?

I mean, I knew he was capable, and he talked a big game, but this was another level.

We were halfway through the living room and I’d just settled the girl with the others when two harsh shots rang out from the kitchen.

Asher emerged a moment later.

The girls reacted, shifting nervously, some whimpering at his presence, others eyeing him warily.

It wasn’t just his bloodied state—other people’s blood drenching him all fucking over.

He held up his hands as he walked to me and wrapped an arm around me very gently, clearly trying to show them that they were safe in his presence.

He tucked me into his side and planted a soft kiss on the top of my head.

It actually worked, at least for the most part.

“It’s over,” he assured them. “You’re free from this living nightmare.”

His watch beeped and a moment later, three women in lab coats strode into the living room, with a half a dozen men following cautiously and at a noticeable distance, some in lab coats, some in casual dress, and one in a suit.

As the women started tending to the girls, the guys in lab coats joining after a few moments, the suited guy approached me and Asher.

Caleb Rowland.

His sandy-blond hair was styled in an Ivy League haircut that complimented his designer suit getup. He was a big guy, but more muscle than bulk, it appeared, and he walked with a definitive swagger.

He and Asher shook as he reached us.

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