Page 36 of Property of Scythe
“Yeah.”
He grunts in response, noticing Lottie. “Hi, lovely. I’m Hangman. These two brutes are my sons.”
I want to roll my eyes. He’s flirting.
“Lottie Bishop. I’m Mila’s teacher.”
Mila. My daughter. Fuck!
I try to sit up and fail, pain shooting throughout my body. “Mila. She’s probably scared.”
“I’ll go,” Hangman offers. “She doesn’t need to know about any of this. I’ll take her for a fun afternoon with Pappy.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He nods before striding toward the school. I know she’s safe with him, and I won’t have to worry.
Boomer kneels beside me. “I’ve got an ambulance coming. Can’t be avoided, Scythe.”
“I know.” At least Mila won’t see it or the fucker under my bike. “We need to learn everything about this guy, Boomer.”
“We will.” He stands and holds out his hand for Lottie.
She accepts it as he helps her to her feet. “Glad we finally have a chance to meet. There’ll be time to talk more later. Right now, I want to get Scythe back to my place.”
“Okay.” She brushes the tears from her cheeks. “Can I come with you?”
“Yeah. I think you should.”
I try to stay awake as I’m loaded onto the stretcher and then into the ambulance. It’s a battle I lose.
WHEN MY EYES OPEN,I can tell I’ve been resting for a long time. My mouth feels like ash, and there’s dried blood on my fingers when I glance down.
I’m not alone. Lottie is sleeping beside me on the bed. I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, wanting to wake her, but I don’t. She needs the extra rest.
I’m staring at the door when Boomer walks in, carrying two mugs of coffee. He knew the second I opened my eyes. It’s instinctive but also rooted in our DNA. Just like we both know without saying that Hangman is home with Mila. They’re safe.
He hands me the mug, and I thank him. “Who is she to you?”
His tone is low. We won’t wake her.
“My woman.”
“You gonna put a property patch on her?”
“Of course.”
Boomer sips his coffee and takes a seat in the chair that’s been pulled close to the bed. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about Jerald Carter.”
“Who’s that?”
“The fucker is in prison for attacking Lottie. She’s Charlotte, by the way.”
“What did he do to her?” I’m pissed.
“Fucked her up and beat her, put her in the hospital. She’s got a gnarly scar on her upper thigh. He almost killed her.”
A growl forms in my throat, and I push the covers off, ready to drive to California, find this asshole, and fire a bullet between his eyes. I’m not above putting out a contract for it either.
