Page 48 of Dukes of Peril

I take in the scene quickly, noting her hitched breaths and pale face, eyes red-rimmed and panicked.

I swipe the silver hockey stick from the credenza right before I lunge, barreling into the lackey. He slams against the wall with a grunt, eyes wide as I put the letter opener right beneath his eye.

“What,” I growl, pushing the tip of the spear into his flesh, “did you do to her?”

He’s fast, whipping out a pistol and pressing it against my gut. “I’ll do it, Bruin,” he says, tone deadly. “I didn’t touch her. She just fucking freaked out when we got in the elevator.”

My heart pounds in my ears, wondering if I can sink this thing into his eye before he can pull the trigger. But then his words process, and I glance at Lavinia again. She’s desperately trying to put herself back together, straightening the short black skirt she’d put on this morning, wiping her eyes with the wrist of her pink sweater.

“Jesus Christ.” I blink, nails digging into this asshole’s neck. Fuckfuckfuck. “You put her in the goddamn elevator?”

The goon’s eyes narrow. “If I’d made her walk all those flights of stairs, you would have seen it as an insult.”

From somewhere behind us, Saul clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “Ewing, put the gun down. For Pete’s sake, this carpet is Persian. You’re not spilling Bruin blood all over it.” He sighs. “You too, Nick. Release my man. I prefer his eyeballs in their sockets.”

Ewing lowers the gun, and I drop my hand.

Lavinia is already shaking her head when I reach her. “Don’t.”

I do anyway, grabbing her face and thumbing away the remnants of tears. “I didn’t know they were going to do this.”

She nods, saying, “I know, I know, just–”

Saul asks, “What’s wrong with Lucia? Is she sick?” But his tone isn’t worried, it’s full of polite disgust. Still concerned about his fucking rug.

“Nothing,” I snap because it’s none of his goddamn business. I press my forehead to hers and speak low. “Breathe, baby. Take a deep breath and I’ll get you out of here.”

She nods and exhales a shuddering breath. Her fingers wind around my wrists, gripping tight, like I’m her anchor. She may be right about that. An anchor that’s dragging her down.

I’m the one that locked her in that elevator.

“We’re leaving,” I announce, grabbing her hand. “Whatever this is, we can deal with it later.”

“No,” Lavinia says, taking another deep breath. “I’m fine.” She glances over at Saul. “I-I just need a minute.”

“Fuck this,” I snap, pulling her into my side. “You want to talk to one of us, you can make an appointment.” I turn for the door, but Ewing’s massive body plants in front of it, arms straight by his side, gun still in one hand. His expression is blank. This guy clearly gets paid more than poor Neon. “Move,” I say, voice low and full of threat, “Or I’ll fucking make you move.”

“Nick,” she says, fingers curled into my shirt, “it’s okay.”

“He put his hands on you,” I argue, wishing like hell I’d brought my pistol.

“I’m not leaving. I don’t want to.” I look down at her and see it—that stubbornness in her eyes. Sofuckingstubborn. “Please?” she begs, easing me away from the door. “Remember last night? You said–”

Anything.

Goddamn it.

I turn to Saul, trying to tamp down the red-hot impulse to murder someone. “You have five minutes.”

“Nick,” Saul says, ignoring my time demands, “Lavinia, why don’t you take a seat.”

Stiffly, I say, “We’ll stand.”

“Nick,” Saul says, voice carrying a heavier tone. A warning. “I’m not here to hurt you or your Duchess. We need to talk, and I’d like to do it civilly.”

Lavinia and I share a look. No civil conversation begins with being dragged to someone’s office against their will. But I can’t go off half-cocked with her in the room. Not while she’s in this condition.

I try, “Whatever you need from me doesn’t involve the Duchess. Let her go.”

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