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The powerful aspect of the khanjar was that the blade was curved. I managed to do some serious internal damage before slicing through his jugular.

When I was finished and soaked in his blood, I took a deep breath and slowly turned my head in Genevieve’s direction.

She was still holding the weapon, her eyes locked firmly on the dead man. I backed away, shaking glass off me before heading toward her. I sensed she was in another zone, likely unable to hear what I was saying.

“Genevieve. It’s over. Give me the weapon.” When she didn’t respond nor did she blink, I placed one hand over hers on the gun. “Come on, baby. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

So slowly I almost didn’t see her move, she tilted her head toward me. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, and I wasn’t certain she’d heard a word. Her grip around the Glock was tight, so much so a single twitch and she’d fire.

I stroked her back, pulling her close to me and gently easing her in another direction. The last thing she needed was to stay over the dead man’s body.

“Give me the weapon, Genevieve.”

She finally blinked and fell against me, allowing me to take the gun. Only then did I take a deep breath, sliding it into my waistband where it had been. I held her for a few seconds before turning her to face me. When I cupped her face, I was certain she would pull away.

While she didn’t, her breathing had yet to return to normal and she was still shaking like a leaf.

“Talk to me. Can you hear what I’m saying?”

She nodded. A small comfort.

“Okay. We’re going to sit down. Alright?” I didn’t give her time to object, pulling us both down on the couch. She didn’t react to the blood or anything else. I was fearful she was catatonic. Fuck. This was the worst thing that could happen.

Fortunately, the chair blocked a portion of the horrific view. As she started gasping for air, I knew she was moving from panic to shock. While it was a step in the right direction, I feared what would happen next.

She dragged her tongue across her lip and that only angered me even more.

“Let me see, baby.” I tilted her head, rubbing my thumb through the blood. My bride watched as I pushed my thumb into my mouth, sucking it clean.

Finally, she sputtered, blinking furiously as she clung to me. “He’s… dead. Right?”

“Yes. He’s dead. He hurt you. I’m so sorry. No one will ever hurt you again.”

“Don’t… Don’t do that. You can’t… You can’t promise that won’t happen.” She was rubbing her hands on me and suddenly her eyes opened wide. “You’re bleeding. Oh, no!”

“I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”

“No. You’re hurt. I need to fix it.” She tried to stand, but I stopped her.

“You’re not going anywhere just yet. Take a breath.”

“I can’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t…” Sobs spilled from her throat and she pressed her head against my chest.

I cradled her head, swearing to whatever God that I would hunt down every person responsible. “Shush. Everything is okay.”

“No, it’s not. It will never be.”

To Genevieve’s credit, she hadn’t asked me any questions, nor had she attempted to stop my method of cleaning. I’d rolled the bastard in a blanket, tossing him into one of the closets. I’d made contact to a cleaning crew I’d used on rare occasions located in Madrid. They’d handle getting rid of the body and cleaning the room so even a forensics team would have difficulty finding a single speck of blood.

I’d held her in the shower and allowed her to provide first aid. Thankfully, the cut on my forearm wasn’t that deep, but it ached like a son of a bitch. I was furious with my lack of planning, including not insisting I have soldiers with me.

Having them trail along like lapdogs had seemed far too intrusive. Now I remained furious, so angry on the short flight home I hadn’t been able to remain in the seat.

All the while, she’d stared out the window, not saying a goddamn word.

What the hell was she supposed to say?

What was I supposed to tell her?