Page 50 of Savage Heart

Trouble knew what Hound was saying, because it’s what he’d been telling himself the last twenty-four months, since Liz strutted her fine ass back into his life again. But he ignoredthat voice telling him that hurting Liz by fucking Amelia wasn’t doing him any favors, that it was only compounding the guilt and shame, that he was only making things worse. And those warnings came true the night he realized he had a daughter…and he’d basically fucked up any chance of being in her life because he’d been a motherfucking asshole to Liz.

He wouldn’t blame Liz if she turned Erika against him, telling their daughter what a piece of shit he was, what he terrible father he was, and how he would only ever let her down.

But Liz wouldn’t do that—no matter how fucking mad he made her. Because Liz was all about family.

And that was something he could use to gethisfamilyback.

Reaching out, he gripped Hound’s beefy shoulder, squeezing it.

“You’re right, brother. About all of it. And…I got to apologize to you. I did what I did, not even considering how it would affect you. That was a bullshit move, and I know that. So…” he raised his arms, his wingspan almost making him slam his hands on the corridor walls. “You got two free shots. Take ’em—”

The two punches to his belly caught him hard and fast, making him double over, his breath exploding from his chest at first impact.

Holy fuck, it was like being hit by a car. Twice.

Hound leaned down until he was right in Trouble’s face.

“Apology accepted, motherfucker.” With that, Hound walked around Trouble’s balled up frame, and headed downstairs.

Wheezing, Trouble stumbled his way to his room, where he gasped for air, wincing when his ab muscles screamed.

After long moments, Trouble took off his bloody shirt and jeans, tossed them into the trash, and stepped into a burning hot shower. He would wash away the Russian’s blood, then he’d head to the hospital—to Liz.

She didn’t need to know about the Russian he’d beaten to shit that morning.

He’d been on his way back to the hospital yesterday, intending to sleep in that torture device of a chair, right next to Liz’s bed, but then he got a call from a club CI who’d been keeping an eye on Blitz, one of the local Russian hang outs. From what Trouble knew, it wasn’t an official Bratva hang out like The Den or Brillianty, but some of the lower-level soldiers hit it up when they wanted to drink themselves under the table on cheap vodka. His CI told him he’d overheard two goons talking about a doctor their boss had a hard on for, and how they were supposed to spread the word about her being off limits to other men in the brotherhood.

That was enough for Trouble to do some hunting—because Liz was sure the fuck off-limits, because she belonged tohim.

It didn’t take much to snatch one of the Russian fucks; he stumbled out of the bar around midnight, heading to fuck knew where, and Trouble assisted the obviously drunk man, right into the truck of his own car. Trouble drove the car and the Russian fuck to a warehouse the club owned on the outskirts of town. They had a room there specifically kitted out for “visitors.” It was rarely used, because people usually knew not to fuck with the Savage Raiders MC, but the Russians had big balls but small dicks, and were wading into dark waters that was over their heads.

It took most of the night and into the early morning to get answers out of the fuck, but what he learned had him wound up and ready to tear out Danil Oblek’s throat.

He reported what he learned to Odin, then called in Grimm to deal with what was left of the Russian. Grimm was the MC hitter, their Enforcer; taking lives was as easy to him as breathing, not that Grimm should feel bad about ridding the world of one more piece of Russian scum.

Now, Trouble was clean, his kutte was on his back, and he was headed out to free Liz from her hospital prison.

Texting Grimm then Dragon, he headed out, ignoring stares from Daisy and Laurie, who were gazing at him with questioning looks on their faces. No doubt rumors about him, Liz, and a little girl who looked just like him where making the rounds among the club women, and no doubt some of those women had heard about his treatment of Amelia. He couldn’t give a shit about any of it.

It took him thirty minutes to pull his truck up to the pick-up/drop off in front of the hospital. Dragon and one of the prospects were parked in visitor parking, closest to the entrance, their eyes alert for trouble. Because one of the things the Russian fuck from last night said as he was bleeding from his mouth was that Oblek had eyes on the hospital…and someone on theinside, feeding him information. There wasn’t anything Trouble could do about the spy, but getting Liz out of there without running into any of Oblek’s men was paramount. Hence the brothers in the parking lot, keeping eyes and ears alert.

Trouble wasn’t an idiot, thinking that Oblek’s men wouldn’t follow him and Liz from the hospital to his house, but once Liz was secure at his place, Oblek would have one hell of time getting to her. And with Erika safe with Hawk and Fae, he didn’t worry that she’d make it to his house safe and secure as well. Once he, Liz, and Erika were within the walls of his house, he could breathe just that much easier, but he wouldn’t be able to breathe deep until Oblek was dead.

Trouble entered the hospital and headed upstairs, his eyes peeled for men who didn’t belong.

It wasn’t until he was steps from Liz’s room that it finally sunk in—he was taking Liz home. Tohishome, a home he bought and remodeled with her in mind, even when he wastoo stuck up his own ass to realize it. And now, Liz and their daughter would be sharing it with him.

Tears burned behind his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them fall. He hadn’t earned the right to shed tears, because tears meant the shedding of guilt, the rise of remorse, the acceptance of his disgrace, and the desire to redeem his dishonor—because that was what it was, dishonor. He’d dishonored the woman he loved in the worst way possible…and he was nowhere near ready for her forgiveness. So he’d wear that guilt, that shame, that disgrace like a scarlet letter, and once he’d finally earned Liz’s forgiveness, then he could shed those burning tears…and wash away all that he’d done.

Looking up from his desk at the knock on the door, Danil cursed under his breath in Russian, English, and French—the French he’d learned in the pretentious boarding school he’d been forced to attend when he was just a boy, because his father had high hopes for him.

Danil still snickered about that; his father was an absolute bastard, who only cared about honoring the family name, and upholding the family legacy. He ruled his family with a heart of ice, and an iron fist that he regularly used on his sons and his wife. In Russia, the Obleks were old money, their lineage going back to when men first crawled down from the Caucasus Mountains, whereas the newer oligarchs—frat boys on a power trip—earned their money in oil and precious gems. The Obleks were one of the first billionaire families, making their ill-gotten money from trade, landowning, slaves, and furs—back before trading in people and dead animal skins was considered immoral. The family dealt mostly in banking now, but they got their start in violence, trafficking, stealing, and then trying to polish their crimes by giving generously to charities.

It had only taken one mistake, at the age of thirteen, for his father to disown him, sending him out into the streets to scavenge and kill to survive. The hypocritical bastard wouldn’t tolerate his son using the housemaids as fuck toys and practice dummies for his knives. He screamed that he wouldn’t have a disgusting pervert and murderer in his home, like the asshole hadn’t been fucking the same maid Danil had played with just the night before.

After two years on the streets, it was Leonid who’d found him, realizing he could use Danil, and sending him for “training.”

When Danil had turned twenty-one and “graduated” from his Brata training, the first thing he did was side with Leonid Medev in a territory war against his own father, Igor Oblek. And when Leonid handed him the gun, Danil had shot his own father in the head, then watched him bleed out on his expensive, hand-stitched Persian rug. The estate, this business, and all the family money went to Danil’s brother, Mikhail, but Danil didn’t give a shit about greedily grasping his share of the family money, because now he was making his own way, on the precipice of having is very own empire—once Leonid was dead.

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