Page 45 of Claimed By the Enemy

In my rearview mirror, I see them climbing into a dark sedan. They’re following me.

I drive like a madman, taking turns at dangerous speeds, running red lights, doing everything I can to lose the tail. Blood keeps dripping into my eyes, and I have to keep wiping it away with my sleeve.

Sophie. I have to get to Sophie.

The sedan stays with me for six blocks before giving up, probably deciding that a high-speed chase through Manhattan isn’t worth the risk of police attention.

They just proved they’re willing to kill for whatever truth they’re trying to protect.

***

I screech into my driveway and abandon the car, not bothering to close the door. Blood is still flowing from the cut on my forehead, and my shirt is soaked through.

“Sophie!” I yell as I burst through the front door. “Sophie!”

“Dom?” Her voice comes from the living room, confused and alarmed. “What-”

She appears in the doorway and freezes when she sees me. Blood on my face, my clothes, my hands. I probably look like I’ve been through hell.

Which, in a way, I have.

“Jesus Christ,” Raff breathes behind her. “Dom, what happened?”

But I’m not looking at Raff. I’m looking at Sophie, who’s staring at me with wide, terrified eyes.

Chapter Twelve

Sophie

Blood. There’s so much blood on his face, soaking through his shirt, staining my hands where I’m touching him.

“We need to get you upstairs,” I say, wrapping my arm around Dom’s waist as he sways slightly. “Can you walk?”

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but he’s leaning heavily against me.

“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding all over my floor.” I look over his shoulder at Patrice, who’s hovering in the doorway with wide, concerned eyes. “Patrice, could you bring the first aid kit to Dom’s room? And some clean towels, ice, whatever you can find.”

“Of course, Mrs. Moretti. Right away.”

“Raff.” I turn to Dom’s best friend, who’s still staring at us like he can’t process what he’s seeing. “Thank you for staying, but I can take it from here.”

“Are you sure? Maybe I should-”

“I’ll take care of him,” I say firmly. “He needs rest, not an audience.”

Raff nods, though I can see the questions burning in his eyes. “Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“I will.”

He grabs his jacket and heads for the door, casting one last worried look back at Dom before disappearing into the afternoon light.

“Come on,” I tell Dom, tightening my grip around his waist. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He doesn’t argue, which tells me more about his condition than any amount of blood could. Dom always argues. Always has to be in control. The fact that he’s letting me guide him up the stairs without a single protest means he’s worse off than he’s admitting.

I help him sit on the edge of the bed, then immediately start working on the buttons of his blood-stained shirt.

“Sophie, you don’t have to—”