She wasn’t good.
More like dancing perilously close to the edge of an emotional chasm.
But he refused to let her fall. A week ago, she might not have had anyone to keep her tethered, but now she had him. His family and their resources. He’d mentored many people over the years. Helped them find their purpose the way Sergei had guided him all those years ago. Granted, he’d only focused on boys in foster homes or orphanages thus far, but he could do the same with Bonnie.
Starting now.
He eased her to her feet and held her by her waist. “Steady?”
“Yeah.” Despite the positive response, she kept her gaze trained downward.
He tipped her face to his with two fingers beneath her chin, needing the visual confirmation as much as her words.
Fatigue, hopelessness and surrender stared back at him, the harsh emotions barely contained within a fragile shell of pure tenacity.
For now, it was enough.
He checked the street. From their vantage point, he couldn’t gauge what interest their altercation might have roused among other tenants in the apartment complex, but no one stirred on the block between here and Bonnie’s building. The nose of his Ford was barely visible in the alley’s shadows, but it was enough for her to make it out. Pulling her in front of him, he pointed to it. “Do you see my truck?”
She dashed the back of her hand against the tears lining one cheek and narrowed her eyes. “Yeah.”
“Good. We will walk toward it together. When I tell you, you will cut across the street, get in and lock the doors.” He pressed the keys in her palm. “If anyone approaches, you will start it and you will leave. Understood?”
She shook her head and faced him. “No. Let’s just both get in and go.”
Even in the darkness, the line of blood where her captor had nicked her flesh was clear against her pale skin. Without thinking, he traced a path just beneath the wound with his thumb. Despite the chill, her skin was warm. Soft and delicate. “I threw the knife on the street when I ran after you. If it is still there, it is a lead. Fingerprints that might be registered in a criminal database.” Assuming he hadn’t eradicated any prints with his own and her would-be captors had left it behind. “There will be more inside your home. I have resources who can gather evidence, but I need to secure your apartment and look for the knife before we go.”
She swallowed hard. Though, whether it was because of his touch, or the reminder of her terrifying experience he couldn’t know. “Right.” She blew out a shaky breath and gripped his forearms. “Okay. I can do that.”
With one last scan up and down the street, he clutched her upper arm and steered her from the shadows.
Only one block. Minimal ground to cover if he were on his own. But without a weapon and braced to cover Bonnie at the slightest hint of danger, it felt more on par with a mile.
The knife lay near curb, just twenty feet ahead.
Roman steered Bonnie in front of him, angled toward his truck. “Go. Now.”
Eyes focused on the street, she took off at a jog, popped the door and locked herself inside.
He carefully gathered the knife, mindful to only grasp the ivory handle where he’d clutched it before. Keeping it close to his side, he casually ambled toward Bonnie’s still open door. One light on the second story burned bright that hadn’t been on before, but no one stood outside and no shadows showed behind the curtains. Otherwise, the complex was eerily silent.
Yet another aspect of her life he intended to deal with as soon as possible. As loudly as she’d cried out, she should have woken at least her immediate neighbors. The fact that no one had come to her defense was unacceptable.
He ducked inside her apartment, removing the keys that still dangled from the lock and stuffing them in the front pocket of his jeans. As he’d expected, her meager belongings were no longer tidily stowed away. The futon mattress made up the bulk of the mess, the majority of its insides now strewn across the living room floor. The card table sat on its side with the plastic storage tubs that had sat on top now spilled all over the carpet. Her bedroom was more of the same—the comforter thrown on the floor, the mattress obviously searched and every drawer rummaged through.
Bastards.
It was bad enough she had almost nothing. But to see what little there was so callously disparaged and disregarded made his insides roil with fury. He would find them. Learn every detail about them and mete out justice befitting of their crimes.
For now, though, Bonnie needed him. He searched the kitchen and found a plastic storage tub for the knife. Once sealed away, he turned off the lights, locked the door behind him and hustled to the truck.
Bonnie sat in the passenger’s seat, her body slunked low enough only the very top of her head showed over the dash. She jolted the second he moved into her line of sight. Almost as quickly, she popped the locks.
“Did you find it?” she asked as soon as he climbed in the cab and shut the door behind him.
He took the keys from her outstretched hand and dipped his head to the plastic tub he’d stowed in the backseat. “Yes.” He fired up the engine, checked each way and pulled into the street.
Silence filled the truck’s interior, broken only by the motor’s rumble and the drone of tires as they accelerated onto the highway. His preference was to contact Luke and get him on point at Bonnie’s apartment before those behind the attack could return, but Bonnie was already strung too tight. Even with her back flush against the seat, her posture was uncomfortably straight, her eyes locked dead ahead and her fists clenched tight on either thigh. She didn’t need more details rattling around in her head. Witnessing his capacity for violence had been more than enough.
Yes, the silence was better. Less riddled with conversational landmines. Though he found himself wishing the center console between them was nonexistent. Physical affection beyond a casual interlude here and there had never been his strong suit, but he found himself itching to touch her. To hold her and stroke her hair. An utterly foreign response he wasn’t entirely sure how to process.
He exited the highway onto St. Charles, slowly making his way along the northern edge of the Garden District toward the townhome he’d bought just a mile from Sergei’s estate.
Bonnie didn’t budge. Didn’t study her surroundings outside as she had the last time he’d driven her here or give any indication she was aware of her whereabouts at all. Just stared out the windshield, her lips tight and her eyes glazed as though a million memories replaced her sight.
He turned onto Eighth Street and drove the two blocks to his home. Built in the early ’80s, it kept with the same plantation style as most other homes in the Garden District, but had significantly less space than Sergei’s massive estate. Still, the four bedrooms and four baths were nothing to sneeze at. The exterior was simple—white walls and evergreen painted shutters—but the location and layout were perfect. From here, he could be at his pakhan’s home within minutes. More than that, there were very few angles that were indefensible should someone breach his personal haven.