Page 68 of Ruthless Reign

The line rang after a few seconds, and I closed my eyes as dark spots clouded the edges of my vision, my pulse beating out of rhythm.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“Someone’s been hurt.”

I forced the tremble out of my tone.

“Okay, miss, could you explain to me the nature of the injuries?”

“He’s…he’s been beaten with a tire iron.”

I pulled the metal iron onto my lap, clenching my fist around the base of the longer end.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“Can you tell if he’s conscious?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he breathing?”

A lump formed in my throat, and I clenched my teeth to stop the tears I didn’t have in me to cry.

“I don’t know.”

I tapped the button to end the call, knowing they would trace my location and send an ambulance. I had maybe ten minutes before they got here. I would need to be long gone by then.

The cool morning air kissed my inflamed cheeks as I stepped out of the Rover and tested the weight of the hard metal bar in my palm.

Let’s go, bitch.

The uneven stones of his walkway vanished under my heels and I was at his door. The handle in my palm. It turned easily, unlocked as if he expected this, expected me. I pushed into a dark living room that smelled like him.

Movement to the right had me snapping my attention to the first door in a short hallway, and the man standing in it. Aodhán stopped in his tracks as the front door creaked shut on its hinges behind me. His bare, tattoo covered arms dropped to his sides. A pair of black sweats hung low on his hips. His golden hair was still wet from a shower and there were ghosts in his eyes.

Seeing his face made that rage return, and I remembered the promise I made him.

If you hurt them, I’ll kill you.

His green eyes tracked to the tire iron in my hand, but as a primal sound reverberated in my chest and I stalked toward him on feet that didn’t feel like my own, he didn’t move.

With both hands, I swung, barely seeing him through the salt in my eyes.

Aodhán grunted as the iron struck the forearm he lifted to block the shot that would’ve kissed his temple.

As the iron struck bone, it rattled, vibrating into my hands like a live wire of electricity plugged into my veins.

I swung again.

Again.

But he kept fucking blocking me.

On the next swing, I aimed lower, catching him in a knee in payment for the one his father shot tonight. He went down, landing on the other one, his face finally betraying the pain he felt. That I inflicted.

When I swung again, he didn’t let it connect with the broken, purple and red flesh of his forearm. He ripped the bar clean out of my hands and chucked it into the corner.

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