Page 53 of Twisted Obsession

Before I can think of an answer that won’t get me shot on the spot, there’s a commotion in the hallway outside the cell I’m being held in. Shouts, running feet, hammering on the door.

“Boss! It’s Miss Roisin,” a panic-laced voice hollers, the sound echoing off the walls. “She’s collapsed. You need to get up here and take control. Miss Radaeva is trying to call an ambulance.”

“Feckin’ bollocks,” Callum growls angrily.

Everyone knows you don’t bring an ambulance to an organized crime compound, even Emylyah should know as much. That she’s trying to do it anyway has all my senses screaming.

Ciaran and Callum exchange a look of alarm before Ciaran rushes to the door, yanking it open.

"What happened?" he demands of the young soldier standing there, his voice sharp with worry.

"We don't know, boss," the man responds, breathless. "She was in her room. Then Miss Radaeva came barreling in, in hysterics. She said she tried to call but you weren’t picking up, so she contacted Miss Maricela.”

My ears prick up at the mention of Vito’s erstwhile fiancée. Did I really hear that right? Not that it matters, I’m more interested in finding out about Roisin. The twins glance at each other, the twoof them powering up their phones which have obviously been switched off.

“We found her unconscious. Her breathing is shallow.”

“Ah, fuck!” Ciaran curses, checking his screen, before he turns back to me, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "This isn't over," he growls, before taking off at a run.

Callum lingers, his fists clenched at his sides. He takes a menacing step towards me, but Ciaran's voice rings out from the hallway.

"Callum! Come on!"

With a final glare that promises nothing good, Callum follows his brother, slamming the door behind him.

The moment they're gone, I struggle against my bonds with renewed vigor. Roisin needs me. Our child needs me. The zip ties dig deeper into my wrists, blood trickling down my arms, but I don't care. I rock the chair, trying to tip it over, hoping to break it and free myself. Not that I have any idea how I’ll get out of this cell, let alone the compound. It might be futile, but I can’t just sit here doing nothing while the mother of my child is having a medical crisis.

The chair creaks and groans under my efforts, but it holds firm. Frustration and fear fuel my struggles, but logic tells me it's futile. Even if I could break free, there's no way out. All I’ve managed to accomplish is to renew the bleeding in my wound and cause more. Together with the lack of fluids, the blood loss is starting to make me feel woozy and it occurs to me I’m not in the best shape myself. And that if my lung isn’t already punctured, there’s a good chance my struggles will finish the job.

I force myself to stop, to take a breath, to think. Panic won't help Roisin or our baby. I need to stay calm, to conserve my strength. I close my eyes, trying to focus, to push past the pain and fear. The pain, I can handle. But my fear for Roisin’s wellbeing… that’s a different animal. One I haven’t encountered before.

My mind races with possibilities. What could have happened to her? Is it the baby? A complication? A consequence from getting knocked down earlier? Or something else entirely? The not knowing is almost worse than the physical pain throbbing through my body.

Minutes drag by like hours. I strain my ears for any sound, any clue about what's happening upstairs, but the basement is silent save for my own ragged breathing.

Whether I like it or not, all I can do is wait.

And hope.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

ROISIN

Icome to groggily and blink repeatedly, trying to clear the fog from my vision. The room swims into focus–my bedroom, familiar yet somehow alien. My brothers' voices filter in from the hallway, raised in agitated discussion. I catch snatches of their conversation.

"...can't believe she's..."

“…how the hell did this happen…”

"...have to tell Ma and Da..."

Groaning, I push myself up on my elbows, wincing at the pounding in my head. The events of the past hours come rushing back–the altercation between Dominic and my brothers, the fear-driven panic that they’d kill him, the sound of his pain drifting up from the basement. My hand drifts to my barely-there baby bump. My child. Our child. And I can only pray everything is okay with the little peanut.

The voices outside grow louder, more heated, and I have a dreadful feeling my secret has been discovered. I need to face them, to explain. I also need to find out if Dominic is okay. Although, if they tell me he’s not…

No, I can’t even entertain such a thought, right now.

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