Page 48 of Hers to Control

Chapter Seventeen

Eric

Mia is a mess, but I can’t do anything about it until we are somewhere else, so I drive to a hotel near downtown that none of the syndicates own. Mia is in the backseat, where I put her earlier, and I toss her my jacket and a spare T-shirt.

“You need to put this on so we don’t draw attention. Press the shirt against your cut and keep pressure on it beneath the jacket. I’m getting us a room.”

She nods weakly, pulling the jacket around her trembling frame as if it’s the only thing keeping her together. With her arms wrapped protectively around her upper body to keep pressure on her wound while she walks, she looks nothing like the badass woman I first met.

But she’s with me, and that counts for something.

I’m still not sure how we got out of there so easily. Either the Russians genuinely didn’t expect anyone to come for Mia, or Anya pulled some stunt. It doesn’t matter right now. What matters now is getting Mia somewhere where I can actually check her injuries.

The hotel lobby is busy, but I ignore the few stares we draw. Most people are too busy to pay attention to us, and Mia has calmed down enough that, with my jacket covering her injuries, only her blotchy face is conspicuous. I keep my voice low, my tone steady as I request a room.

The woman behind the counter gives Mia a concerned look, but I give her a bullshit story about us being in town for a funeral.

Once we’re inside the room, I lock the door behind us, turning to face Mia, who’s collapsed onto the bed, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Mia, you need to tell me what happened. I need to know so I can help you.” So I can kill every single one of the Russians who did this to her, is what I really mean, but I keep that to myself.

She looks up at me, her eyes filled with tears and terror, but she nods slowly, as if steeling herself to relive the nightmare she’s just endured. Fuck, this woman is strong. It makes my dick twitch in appreciation. Another thing to prove how fucked up of a guy I am.

“They… they…” she chokes on her words, unable to continue as fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

I wrap my arms around her, holding her close against me. Weirdly enough the contact actually helps my own temper to settle a little, preparing me to hear what happened to my girl.

“They injected me with something.” She whispers it against my chest as if none of her strength is left.

It takes a moment for the words to register, then it takes all my strength not to tighten my hold around Mia into an iron grasp.

They drugged my woman and my child. Our unborn child.

Mia whimpers and begins to shake. I pull the blanket around her.

“I’ll get a doctor.” It’s the best I can do for her right now, and that is the worst of all. I want to kill them. Torture them. Mutilate them until they feel a sliver of the pain I’m feeling right now, but I can’t leave Mia.

And I need to know.

I need to know whether our baby is still fine.

Shifting, I take the phone from my back pocket intending to dial the doctor the Bruno syndicate always uses. Instead, I stare at my phone, realizing there is something I should do first. It’ll take me deeper into the debt I owe Mikhail’s sister but at this point, I’m already fucked anyway, and the only thing I’ve got to hang onto is in my arms breaking apart right now.

So I call Anya.

“You shouldn’t be calling me,” she hisses, and if she were in front of me I’d wrap my fingers around her neck and squeeze until she didn’t have enough air to waste my time.

“They drugged her. What did they give her?”

Maybe, just maybe, if we know what they injected her with, the doctor can tell us what we can do to make it better. Maybe there is a way to protect the baby from whatever shit the Russians used on Mia.

There is a pause on the other end of the line, and I want to push my knife into Anya’s throat until blood drips down her neck, forcing her to talk, but all I’ve got is this fucking phone and a whimpering woman in my arms.

“It was a saline solution,” Anya finally says and I grind my teeth.

“Fuck off,” I snarl, but Mia is sitting up, her head tilting as if she’s trying to listen in on the conversation. I don’t want her to hurt more, but we need this information, so I press on. “You don’t expect me to believe that your father only pretends to drug the people he tortures. And they fucking tortured her.” The blood staining my own shirt is enough proof, even if it’s barely visible on the black fabric. I’ve avoided looking at Mia’s chest again, knowing that seeing her injury might flip that switch in my brain that won’t allow me to stop until I’ve murdered someone.

Anya huffs as if annoyed. “No, I don’t expect you to believe that, but it was a saline solution. I switched the syringe.”

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