Page 2 of Mob Bride

“You made it my business by trespassing and hiding here. Put the gun down because I will hurt you when I take it. I told you that already. I also told you I’ll lose my shite if I see another bruise on you.”

“Walk away. That solves both our problems. Back up, and you don’t have to worry I’ll put a bullet between your shoulders or through your head.” The defiance is still there. Good.

“And I told you I know you don’t want to die. I normally don’t repeat myself twice, let alone three times.”

“And you can see why no one’s bullying me a second time tonight.”

I don’t like to live on the edge or whatever cliche fits, but I’m used to it. I have a healthy fear of dying. That’s why I’m still alive at the whopping old age of thirty-two. I keep walking until I’m my arm’s reach from her. She’s at least eight inches shorter than my six-three.

“You call whatever the feck happened to you tonight being bullied?”

“What else do you call being relentlessly forced into something you don’t want to do?”

My eyes skim over her, and she finally understands the rage I feel but am not showing. She shakes her head and finally points the gun at the sky like I did before lowering mine. Except she doesn’t put hers down.

“I got beaten up. No one raped me. Calm down.”

I cock an eyebrow. “I’d say for someone who’s had a gun pointed at them for five minutes, I’m pretty fecking calm.”

“And I’d say you’re a pretty fucking good liar. Imagine why I’m not feeling so trusting. Besides, you already told me you’re angry. Red hair and a temper.” She cocks a dark brow at me.

“I did say that. Telling an angry person to calm down usually has the opposite effect.”

I reach out, and she immediately shifts to bring the gun down. My touch is gentle as I turn her chin toward the moonlight, so I can see her better. She was in the shadows, but the moon and nearby streetlights allowed me to see more of her than just an outline. She’s in worse condition than I thought.

“If I were going to hurt you, I already would have.” My tone is softer because my rage is about to boil over. “Boyfriend or girlfriend?”

Her gaze shutters.

“This was personal. This wasn’t someone tried to mug you, and you fought back. This wasn’t some drug deal gone bad. This wasn’t some argument at a bar that escalated. This is someone who knew you and wanted to punish you. This was personal.”

“How would you know the difference?”

Because I’ve beaten enough people to death to recognize the difference.

I can’t tell her that. I avoid the question.

“You won’t go to the hospital, or you would’ve already. I know two doctors, both women, I can take you to. Beyond ageand any underlying health conditions, they won’t ask anything except whether it hurts when you cough. They aren’t nosey like me. Do you want a neonatologist or a former navy surgeon?”

She stares at me dumbfounded before she jerks away. Pain shoots through her, and her face shows it. She nearly doubles over. Fear and adrenaline kept her distracted while we were talking, but that one move reminds her she’s lucky she isn’t dead. I’ve done far less than she’s survived and killed bigger men than her while doing it.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“I didn’t say you have to. They both make house calls.” Not that I want to pull Ally away from her celebratory night out. I’m going to call Meredith, but I want this nameless woman to feel like she has a choice, even though she doesn’t.

I know she won’t tell me the truth about her name, so I haven’t bothered asking. But I can offer mine. “I’m Shane O’Rourke.” I observe intently, but the name doesn’t register. Unless she’s a sociopath, she isn’t hiding recognition.

“Jane Doe.”

I grin and nod. She says it like we’re meeting at some garden party in the Hamptons. I reach out to her again, and she moves to bring her gun down again. She stopped herself when she realized I wasn’t hurting her when I touched her face. She’s not trusting this time. It’s easy to take it from her. I could’ve done it before, but I didn’t want her to feel entirely powerless. But the movement obviously caused her pain, and that concerns me more than the chance she’ll finally shoot me. She tries to fight me to keep it, but she’s no match for me.

“Enough.”

I bark the word, and it spurs her to fight harder. I’m bullying her, and she said she wouldn’t let that happen twice tonight. With her gun away from her, I take six steps back.

“I’m reaching for my phone to call the surgeon. She’ll come here.”

She narrows her eyes at me and continues to glare during my entire conversation with the woman who’s been sewing me up since Misha Andreyev cracked a beer bottle over my shoulder in eighth grade and gave me ten stitches. It’s one of the few distinguishing marks that tells me apart from my twin. Fully dressed, people outside my family can only tell us apart from the freckle on the left side of Sean’s throat.

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