Page 95 of Hurt

None of these paled in comparison to seeing Willow unhappy.

If that smile disappeared or those gray eyes stopped shining, Roland’s entire world would crumble. One person having so much power over him should be alarming, but he could only feel a warm sense of happiness. Giddiness, maybe. If someone like Roland could feel such a frivolous emotion. He was a pragmatic man. Roland’s view on life was black and white. Things like emotion and morality didn’t really factor into his decisions. But Willow had changed that. Suddenly he found himself wondering how the woman would feel or what she would think.

For reasons he would never understand, Kurt was crucial to Willow’s happiness. Grant’s too, which was even more baffling to Roland. How his brother could lose himself to such a morose and broken man was beyond his comprehension.

So, in the end, Roland had stopped him.

At the final moment, he had knocked the gun askew. Blazing hot pain had seared across his hand when the bullet grazed him, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He supposed he should feel sorry for Kurt, and maybe he did more than he would have before meeting Willow. Before meeting the musician, Roland would never have considered meddling in anyone else’s life. Perhaps Grant or maybe his grandfather, but they were both grown men capable of handling their own affairs.

But now, he was here with an unconscious man in his arms as he picked his way back to the road.

Sid had called him a few hours ago—the line had barely connected when the nervous man vomited out an impressive string of words that were probably English but sounded closer to something a toddler would scream during a sugar rush. At Roland’s silence, he repeated the message:Willow needs you. Come get her at the taco truck.

Roland had, of course, no idea what that meant. But it didn’t take long to figure out where this taco truck was parked. Upon his arrival, Sid had kept the car between him and the silent Roland.

“I did not do anything to her! It’s a sleeping pill. I put it in her wine.”

Sid must not have loved the way Roland cracked his knuckles and advanced toward him because he shrieked and raced around the car, yelling something about Kurt asking him to do it and ‘don’t hit the messenger.’

Finding Willow passed out but unharmed had alleviated some of his lethal mood. As he carried her to his car, the woman had moaned in her sleep, eyes shifting under ethereally white lids. Even in sleep, she was distressed.

It hadn’t taken long to get the day’s events from Sid. And as he drove Willow back to his personal residence, he put together a grim picture.

Sid had not known the identity of Kurt’s tormentor, but it didn’t take a genius to guess it was someone powerful enough to make Kurt worry for his family. Since he didn’t turn to Grant for help, it had to be someone to rival even the Weaver Syndicate.

Which meant it had to be a Vega.

Adjusting Kurt’s head, so it was resting against his shoulder, he traversed the desert and made it to the main road. Blood stained his clothes from Kurt’s head wound—it was unpleasantly warm and sticky against his skin.

On his way here, Grant had called him and told him about the attack on the Weaver Estate. Everything in him screamed to go back, to fight the Vegas and make them pay for their audacity. Every mile he drove in the opposite direction was like rubbing salt in the wound. It was agony. But he had to continue on.

For the first time in his life, he found himself doing something completely illogical for the sake of someone else’s feelings. He hardly recognized himself.

Laying Kurt down in the back seat, he debated where to take him. Normally, he would have taken him to the main residence. But since that was no longer an option, he wasn’t sure where to go. He needed a doctor. Molly was the obvious choice, but she was busy tending to Weaver wounded.

Roland got into the car and began driving toward Weaver’s lands.

Grant’s home was tucked away into the recesses of the Weaver Estate. Completely isolated, it was the perfect place to hide away. While the main house had been remote, Grant’s home was almost inaccessible. The road to get there didn’t exist, and unless you knew it was there, it was impossible to find.

Pulling out his cellphone, he dialed a number.

Thick acrid smoke clogged the air. Like poison, it invaded every crevice and choked him. Tears spilled from his eyes as he coughed and gagged. Blindly, Grant moved through the haze heading toward where he knew the house would be. It was getting hotter the closer he got, and bits of hot embers were glowing in sporadic piles as the wind carried the flame from the source of ignition.

Wallace was safe. He had made sure his grandfather had a ride to one of their safe houses along with whoever else he could find. The Weavers were scattered, and it would be impossible to get a full head count for a while. Protocol dictated that the Weavers spread out until the all-clear, then they could regroup and finally get a plan together.

His heart was heavy, and his lungs ached with every toxic breath, but he had to be sure. He had to be sure no one was left behind and salvage what they could.

Wiping the sweat from his face, he finally came to where the front door would be. The expansive stone porch led up to a burned wreckage of charred wood and rubble. What had once been a magnificent mansion full of history was now a smoldering ruin. The home Grant and Roland had grown up in was gone.

It was a blow. Not only to them personally but to the group itself. The house was their headquarters as well as the main offices for the Weaver Syndicate. Elijah and Jamie had also grown up in the mansion, as well as countless Weaver orphans the group had taken in. Classes were taught on the ground floor, offices on the second, and bedrooms on the third. Generations of Weaver history had been stored here.

Faint coughing drew Grant’s attention, and he jumped off the porch, racing toward a stand of trees that were blackened from the fire. Two Weaver members were coming out of the woods. One was limping, and the other was burned so badly Grant could barely recognize him.

“Quickly.” Grant took one on each arm and left the ruins of his childhood home behind as he guided them through the smoke to the end of the driveway where groupings of cars and people were being dispatched.

The Weavers didn’t call the fire department. By the time the alarm went up, the flames had spread. The fire department was too far away to save the home, and the Weavers weren’t exactly keen to allow more people to know the location of their estate. They were more than capable of helping their own people.

Darkness had fallen, and cars were parked with their headlights splashing light onto a section of driveway where Molly was treating patients. Those who were uninjured were either standing guard or helping her. The air smelled like smoke and burnt hair, a nauseating mix that reminded Grant of a slaughterhouse.