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I’m on my feet in an instant, my fists balling as I brace for a fight.
“We’ll be right there,” he says and ends the call. “That was the front gate guard. Quinn was dropped off there. He said I need to come out immediately.”
“It could be a trap,” Natasha says, rising from the table as well, her movements demonstrating a catlike grace.
“I’m going with you,” I state, practically herding Killian toward the door as I follow closely on his heels.
We walk because the Bugatti won’t fit us all and Scott’s out with the Escalade—probably still waiting in the city since Quinn was dropped off.
Natasha joins us, her steps light compared to Killian’s pounding beats as we race toward the gate. My hand remains on my firearm tucked into the back of my pants because the younger Sokolov sister is right. It could be a trap.
But when I see Quinn’s slim figure sprawled on the concrete, all sense of caution evaporates.
The gate guard stands from his crouch beside her, stepping forward to meet us. I scarcely hear what he has to say, though, as Killian and I drop to the ground as we reach her. A smattering of bruises circle her wrists and ankles. With several more dotting her legs, arms, and face. Angry welts cover her limbs. And a small trickle of blood runs down her temple from her hairline.
But what terrifies me most is how utterly still she is.
“Quinn. Quinny,” Killian says cupping her cheek.
“I think she’s unconscious,” the gate guard says, strain making his tone tight and high.
“Who did this?” Killian snarls, his gaze snapping toward the guard.
“Th-they said they were with someone named Lucian. They wanted me to give you a message.”
“What is it?” Killian demands as I feel for a pulse on her wrist.
And relief floods my body when I find it thrumming, strong and steady, through her veins.
“She’s alive,” I murmur, and I lean in to gently scoop her up off the sidewalk. She weighs next to nothing and looks terrifyingly fragile as I lift her in my arms. For the first time in forever, I feel helpless. Someone I care about more than anything in the world—someone I would give my life to protect—was hurt. Badly. Sudden and intense rage floods my chest. I want to destroy whoever is responsible.
“They said the Kings need to keep their noses out of Don Lucian’s business—the Sokolov empire will be his, and if you don’t want to lose your sister for good, you’ll stay out of it,” the guard says, his voice halting as he repeats the message reluctantly—as if he wants no part of whatever “business” Lucian and the Kings are involved in.
Killian comes to a stand beside me, Natasha following our movements as she continues to scan the dark street beyond the gates. And as I cradle Quinn close to my chest, she reminds me of the young girl she once was.
Her face is smooth and slack in her unconsciousness, her skin so pale it makes the smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks stand out. She better not be seriously injured, or whoever dared to hurt her will suffer a slow and painful death.
I want nothing more than to wrap my fingers around Lucian Agosti’s throat right now, knowing that this was done at his command.
“Let’s get her inside,” Killian says, his voice low and soft and deadly as he brushes the stray locks of hair back from Quinn’s face. His eyes burn with the same infernal fury blazing in my chest.
The trudge back to his brightly lit mansion is tense as he calls Scott to question him and informs him to come home.
And all the while, I can’t tear my eyes from Quinn’s pale complexion for longer than a moment. I hate this powerless feeling, the intense sense of failure. Because I wasn’t there to protect her. I should have been.
I carry her down the hall to her wing of the house, and Killian opens the door to her room, his expression grave. Maybe it’s me, but in the light, she looks even more frail. I lay her gently onto her bed, careful not to jostle her. And a spike of fear lances through me as I wonder if I shouldn’t have moved her at all. If she has any severe internal injuries, I could have made them worse.
But I hated seeing her on the ground like that.
“She’s covered in welts and bruises,” Killian growls, turning her wrists over to reveal the red and deep-black-and-purple marks.
The bruise on her cheek looks swollen, the faint outline of fingerprints marking her beautiful skin. Someone slapped her. Hard. And my hackles rise as I think of anyone daring to lay a hand on her.
“I’ll call my family doctor,” Natasha says. “He’s made house calls at this time of night before. He’ll do it for me.”
Killian gives a curt nod, then he starts to pace at the foot of Quinn’s bed. That same seething restlessness pounds through my veins, but I can’t bring myself to leave Quinn’s side. My protective instincts are in overdrive, my senses attuned to the vulnerable young woman lying unconscious on her bed.
But I turn my head to watch my foster brother as he works himself into a rage.