Page 3 of Wanted 2

He body-rushed me, pinning me against the wall, his meaty arm tucked under my chin and crushing my throat until I couldn't breathe.

"You'll bring my boy back or they won't find your body, not that anyone would bother looking!"

I could feel my consciousness fading, but before it did, I managed to lift my leg and ram my knee into his groin.

He released me and fell back, screaming in pain as I slumped to the ground choking and holding my throat.

That's when the Count walked through the front door.

"I asked for quiet!" he began imperiously. Then, catching sight of my father, he cocked a slow brow at him. "Who are you and why are you on my property?"

"That's my father," I whispered, my throat already swelling. "I told him to leave. I'm sorry."

Always. Freaking. Apologizing. For my shit of a family.

Then the Count marched to my father, leaned over and lifted him by the collar of his shirt, straight into the air. I gaped. While the Count stood taller than my father, he wasn’t bulkier. Yet, he lifted my father as if he weighed no more than a feather.

"Get off my property and keep your hands off my staff or it's your body that won't be found," the Count said, speaking every word with a slow deliberate calm that sent shivers up my spine.

My father quailed in his boots and then made a mad dash back to his car. The next minute, he peeled away, down the private road and probably to the nearest bar.

With him gone, I tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness struck, and I nearly toppled over.

Strong hands caught and steadied me. Then, the Count lifted me into his arms as if I weighed no more than a child and carried me into his house.

As he walked up the stairs toward his private suite, I let my head fall against his chest. I felt numb. Overwhelmed. I didn’t want to think anymore, so I didn’t. I just rested my head, wanting nothing more than to hear the solid beating of the chest beneath my ear.

Only…there was nothing. Not a single heartbeat, no matter how much I strained to hear. Maybe it was the pounding in my own head, drowning out everything else?

The Count placed me on his bed and stoked the fire, and then left, only to return a moment later with a glass of something dark and red. "This will help you heal," he said, handing me the cup. "It's an old family recipe."

He stood over me, so cold and distant, yet the arm he slid behind my back was the gentlest I’d ever felt as he helped me sit up to drink.

The metallic, bitter taste combined with the pain in my sore throat nearly made me gag, but I forced myself to drink the entire concoction, and then handed him back the cup.

"What was in that?" I asked as he carefully eased me back down on the pillows.

"A special brew," he answered. "Herbs from my homeland and a few other things you wouldn't be able to find here."

A warmth began spreading through me, making me feel almost drunk. The thought made me panic. Had I just accidentally blown my sobriety after working so damn hard for over a year? I shot up in the bed, my heart pounding, but the sudden movement made me clutch my head in instant regret.

"Rest," the Count’s deep baritone urged.

"Am I drunk?" I groaned. "Was there something in that?"

"No. You have a concussion and some bleeding. The drink will help, and you might feel different for a time, but I did not drug you. On that, I give you my word. Now, rest."

His words held such command that I couldn't resist them, and almost immediately, I fell back into the bed and into a deep sleep.

When I woke next, it was to find the Count sitting in front of a crackling fire, nursing what looked like a tumbler of whiskey. He shifted at once, apparently sensing the instant I’d opened my eyes.

"Why was your father here?" he asked, staring at the flames dancing on the logs.

My father. I didn’t really want to talk about him. Swallowing a sigh, I climbed out of the bed, preparing to wince in pain, but instead, to my surprise, I felt only a small twinge. I flexed my jaw in wonder, marveling at my speedy recovery. I’d expected to feel that beating for weeks.

Then, I recalled the Count’s question and joined him at the fireplace. "He was looking for my brother," I said.

The Count waved me to the tufted leather chair opposite him, and after I’d taken my seat, looked over to me with dark penetrating eyes. "And where is your brother?"

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