Page 30 of No Promises, No Lies

He releases me. My shaking legs are no match for my dead weight, so I crumple to the floor, sliding down the wall at my back. Both terrified and devastated that my escape attempt failed so miserably.

Aidan doesn’t say another word. He storms through the room, picks up the skate, and wrenches open the closet door. He hauls out his hockey bag to take it with him, slamming the door shut behind him.

A single tear leaks down my face and I curl in on myself, feeling hopeless.

19

LITTLE LION’S GOT CLAWS

AIDAN

Rory is asleep when I finally return to the guest room I’ve stashed her in.

She’d come close to doing serious damage, just missing the crucial radial artery in my arm and barely missing my throat. Lucky for me, Reagan had been studying to be a nurse before we locked everything down after the hit on our father. My forearm is freshly stitched up and bandaged, courtesy of my little sister. Although, I could’ve done without her commentary on the matter.

The feisty Russian stripper is certainly the talk of the loft tonight. I don’t think I’ll ever live it down, letting her get the jump on me like that.

I’m irritated, but at the same time, impressed by Rory’s attempts to fight back.

Little lion’s got claws.

But now, she’s out cold. Exhaustion finally caught up to her. She doesn’t wake when I make my way across the room. I take the opportunity to study the little figure skater.

She’s curled up on the floor by the brick wall. Arms wrapped around her knees and knees that are tucked up into her chest. Exactly where I left her. A quick glance over at the bed showsit untouched.Her honey-blonde hair spills over her shoulders, curling at the ends, catching the light from the garden outside like spun gold. Framing delicate features—high cheekbones, a dainty nose, and lips that curve into a fascinating little pout that all give her an angelic quality.

But her eyes tell a different story, haunting me day and night. Steel-blue and piercing, a striking contrast to her soft features, carrying a depth that hints at shadows hiding under the surface. There’s a fragility to her beauty, but also a strength, like ice that gleams in sunlight but is sharp enough to cut.

The six-inch wound down my forearm is a testament to that. She looked like an angel, yes, but not the kind that belongs in the heavens. No, there was something darker about her, a quiet defiance in her steely gaze that marks her as a fallen one. One that carries scars hidden deep under a perfect golden exterior.

She wears a worn Vancouver Wolves Hockey sweatshirt.Was she telling the truth about being Canadian?I haven’t yet followed up with Liam. The little skirt poking out from under her hoodie has the trademarked figure skating cut to it. Her tights have little runs in them. They trail all the way up her thigh.Interesting.Why was she in a strip club’s office in her skating clothes?

Leg warmers hug her ankles, but she shivers in her sleep.From nightmares or the cold, I can’t tell.

I set down the tray of food I brought for her on the floor, a few feet from where she’s lying. She’ll see it when she wakes up. A sandwich, an apple and a bag of chips. Along with a couple of bottles of water. I chastise myself for forgetting until now to feed her. In my defense, we don’t normally feed our hostages, but for this one, I can make an exception. I need her alive to answer my questions.

Her honey hair has fallen loose from its braid, spilling across her face. I frown at the sight of the angry-looking cut on hercheek. The edges are a little puffy and swollen. Possibly the start of an infection. She’s cleaned it, but I make a mental note to provide some antibiotic cream.

The more I study her, the less sense any of it makes.

She’s not a stripper or an escort. She doesn’t have that vacant look so many in the skin trade get after being so ruthlessly passed around. Could she be telling the truth about the club?

How does someone like Rory get mixed up with the Russian Bratva? And with Adrik Kostalov, of all people? It was his office, after all, that I found her in.

If I can only confirm her innocence, there’s no consequence in letting her go. Scare her, rough her up a little to keep her from going to the cops, sure, but if she has no ties to the Russians, there’s no threat to the Irish by letting the girl live.

Still, my gut nags at me that there’s something more going on with this girl. Her reactions to the situations she’s lived through in the past day or so aren’t typical. Any ordinary girl, plucked up off the street, would’ve pissed her pants in a mess of tears and screams when Jimmy pointed that gun in her face.

Rory’s afraid, but she’s calm, resourceful. She cut me with my hockey skate, for God’s sake. Was aiming for my throat, and would’ve succeeded too if I hadn’t thrown my arm up when I did.

And what the fuck was that reaction after I took the skate from her? She was ready for me to hit her. Unless you have experienced being hit before, you wouldn’t react that way. The terror in her eyes when she tracked the back of my hand coming toward her…

It pissed me off.Who’s hitting her?

I step back, reaching over and pulling the thick, white knit throw blanket off the top of the bed. Gingerly, I drape it over her tiny form. She stirs a little as the weight of the blanket settles over her but doesn’t wake.

As feisty as she was, it was only a matter of time before she crashed. And crashed hard. Adrenaline can only take you so far. I should use her exhaustion to my advantage; grill her until she’s delirious from lack of sleep. But I back out of the room as silently as I came. Careful not to wake the sleeping skater curled up on the floor.

I’m still pissed as hell over the shit she pulled with the skate, but I’m not a monster. It’s the least I can do for the hell I’ve put her through during her time with me. Like I said, maybe she is innocent in all of this. Caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

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