Page 36 of Luck of the Draw

“You there?”

Brennan placed the phone back against his ear. “Yeah, sorry I thought someone was at the door.”

“Right, right. I’ll arrange for Angelo to meet you at the usual place. Saturday morning work for you?”

“Uh…”

“You enjoy that cemetery tour now.”

Brennan nodded hastily. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

“Take care, kid.”

“Thanks.” Brennan swallowed. “You too.”

The line went dead. As dead as Brennan might be soon if he didn’t figure something out.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair and then slowly turned the doorknob to enter the bedroom. Going back to sleep was out of the question—he might not sleep for days with that kind of threat hanging over his head—but if he didn’t lie down, he might just pass the fuck out right on the floor.

Approaching the bed, Brennan’s mind was instantaneously cleared of stress. There on his large bed was Skye and her long, auburn waves cascading across his pillows and sheets. After all, there was no better distraction in the world than a beautiful woman in his bed, and right then he would take all the distracting he could get.

He lifted the sheet in preparation to slide in next to Skye but immediately froze.

What in the fresh mother fucking hell is this?

Her back was riddled with bruises. Other grotesque markings and injuries marred her alabaster skin as well. All of it practically screamed that someone recently beat the ever-loving shit out of her. What else could it be? His mind flooded with the recollection of her insistence upon having the lights off.

Was this why?

It had to be.

Brennan gingerly swept her hair off her shoulder. There were marks on her bicep that wrapped in fat lines like severe imprints of hands and fingers. Bracing his palms on either side of her, he leaned over her and gently nudged her to turn onto her back. She did, only stirring slightly, but his stomach instantly curdled at the sight of her face

How in the fucking hell had he missed that?

Purple-gray, sickly greenish-yellow, all over her left cheek. Some were fresh bruises, and some were at least a week old. With her now lying on her back, he could see that her other bicep had a nearly identical contusion, and that was fresh, too.

Brennan had lived through the horrors of wartwice, and he still couldn’t keep his jaw from hanging open and his brows from drawing together. And then, crackling, red-hot anger exploded in his veins.

Someone somewhere was going to pay for this shit. And no matter what he had to do, Brennan was going to save Skye from them.

“Skye.” He gave her waist a gentle shake. “Skye, wake up, honey.”

She drew in a deep breath and sighed quietly before turning her face to nestle in the pillow, putting her battered cheek on full display.

Brennan stroked his hand over the top of her head and leaned closer. “Skye, I need you to wake up.”

Her long eyelashes flinched, and she crinkled her freckled nose. The dichotomy between how unbelievably sweet she looked and the brutal appearance of her skin gripped him with righteous indignation.

Brennan was notorious for all sorts of things in and around the city of New Orleans, but in his tight-knit circle of friends, his hallmark was less the hook-ups than it was his one, massive personality flaw.

Brennan’s inexplicable guilt from his former life as a murderer had morphed into a compulsive need to save people, and thereby placate his conscience. It was why he initiated the financial arrangement with Jimmy Hall to permanently prevent Frenchmen Street Records from going under. It was why he’d immutably latched onto Connor, who was drowning in so much post-traumatic stress and depression from losing brothers-in-arms to deployments and two of his closest friends to suicide, and also kicking the love of his life to the curb out of shame that he was basically a perpetually drunk shell. It was why, when the love of Connor’s life showed back up in New Orleans ten years later looking like Brennan’s soulmate, Brennan made it his mission not to claim her for himself, rather to matchmaker the ever-loving shit out of the both of them.

All ofthoseinstances were righteous things worth saving, and Brennan’s conscience insisted that he was the man for the job.

He had no idea what or who Skye needed saving from, but he was the man for the job.

He would figure it out and take care of it, no matter what that entailed.

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