Page 12 of Dance of Devils
But tonight must be a night for irrational behavior, because before I know what I’m doing, before I can tell myself not to get involved, I’m sliding my arms under her limp body and scooping her off the dirty, hard ground.
Fucking hell, she weighs nothing at all as I cradle her against my chest.
Yeah, fuck waiting for the cops or an ambulance to get all the way out here.
She’s coming with me.
3
KIR
She’slike a paper doll in my arms as I carry her to the Aston Martin.
“My…bag…”
I pause mid-step, surprised when I hear her voice against my chest. Barely there. Hardly a whisper.
“Don’t worry about that,” I growl as I quicken my step. “I’m going to help you.”
“Bag…” she croaks again. “Pearl…needs me.”
My brow furrows. I have no idea who Pearl is. But clearly, she’s important to her, and the bag is somehow part of it.
So fuck it.
I make a slight detour, backtracking to where her bag is still lying in the middle of the street behind The Mirage. I easily hold her with one arm as I reach down to pick the tattered old thing up. For one horrible second, I wonder if Pearl is a fuckingpetthat she had in there. But a quick glance puts that idea to rest.
At the car, I gently get her settled in the passenger seat and buckle her in, her precious bag at her feet. She’s unconscious again, her face still too matted with blood and hair for me to see it clearly. But I let my gaze drag over the rest of her.
Then I shrug off my jacket and cover her nudity.
Not that she doesn’t haveexquisitetits. But this is hardly the time or place.
My brows knit as I skim my eyes over her again.
Sneakers. Slightly punk skirt. A plain white scoop neck t-shirt, now mostly ripped off her.
No stilettos, G-string, or fishnets. She’s obviously not one of the girls who works at The Mirage. Which begs the question, what thefuckwas she doing hanging around out back of the place, where wastes of oxygen like those four motherfuckers could find her and try to hurt her like that?
My jaw tightens when my gaze drifts back over her raw knees, scraped palms, and bloodied face.
Nottry.
Theydidhurt her.
The cut on her forehead is superficial, but heads bleed a lot. In any case, she needs to be seen by someone. So without any more overthinking on my part, I shut her door, walk around to my side, then slide in and start the engine.
The Aston Martin rumbles like a stealth fighter as I pull out into the night and start tapping NYU Langone Medical into the dashboard GPS.
The girl mumbles something, her mouth barely moving as her head lolls.
“Just relax, babygirl.” I glance at her, then back to the road. “I’m taking you to the hospital. They’ll get you fixed up, and then you can talk to the police about?—”
“No…”
The word tumbles out of her mouth just as her shoulders slump back against the seat, like it took the last of her strength to push it over her lips.
“No…police.”
