Page 43 of Stolen Princess

I snarl and push him off me. “I’m fine.”

“Hey.” He grabs my cheek again, holding me tighter. “You’re not.”

I emit a shrill cry and shove past him, going over to the man on the ground, rage burning through me like an inferno. I kick the man on the ground in the spine, in the ass, in the legs. Over and over, I kick him, screaming and wailing on him with my fists when my legs prove to be ineffective.

“Fuck you!” I bellow, hitting his face. “You weren’t supposed to prove her right! This was my shot. I needed this! Don’t you know I fucking needed this?”

Tears scald my face, worsening my vision.

I’m swept off my feet and tucked into a strong, wet chest. “Hush now. We need to get off the street. The cops will come any minute, and neither of us wants that.”

He’s right. I don’t want that.

We make it halfway up the block, my body tight against him, my arms clinging. He smells like rain and fury and something that’s distinctly Rhys. I don’t like this. I mean, I do, it’s wonderful, despite everything, and comforting beyond expressible words, but it’s not safe for me on several levels.

“Put me down,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, and I clear it when he doesn’t listen. “Put me down, Rhys.” This time it’s a demand.

“I can’t,” he grits out.

“Do it.”

“No, princess, I really fucking can’t.”

“Put me down. I don’t want to be carried.”

He adjusts me, shifting me up higher on his chest. “If I put you down, I’ll go back and kill him, and it won’t be fast. I’ll take him somewhere and torture him, but you’re bleeding and were hit in the head. I need to hold you, or I’ll kill him, and I can’t leave you like this.”

My eyes squeeze tight, and I press my lips together as I cling to him, allowing him to carry me out of the rain and back to our inn. The air conditioner hits me, and I shiver, my teeth chattering, and let me tell you, that’s seriously not fun for my cheek.

I hear the owner ask what’s wrong, and Rhys tells him I tripped and fell face-first into a lamppost. He asks if there’s a pharmacy close by for some first-aid items.

“I have a kit.”

“Grand. I’ll be back for that in a minute.”

“No. I’ll bring it up.”

“Thanks.”

He walks us up the stairs, holding my weight as if it were nothing. We reach our door, and he moves me again to fiddle with his pocket for the key, but he also has freaking guns in there, and I wiggle around, forcing him to set me down.

He’s fuming, his jaw locked tight and his eyes wild.

His wet hair is pressed to his forehead, his shirt to his chest, and despite everything, despite the way my head hurts and how I was just attacked, I feel my skin growing tight, and I look away.

“You took my phone and left.”

I frown. “I was coming back. I wanted to look something up.”

“First time in twenty-five years I sleep past dawn, and you sneak out on me. No one gets the slip on me, and yet you did.”

I don’t know what that means, and I’m too wrecked to question it. He manages the door, and I’m off my feet again before I can take a step. He brings me into the bathroom and sets me down on the closed toilet seat.

“Don’t move.” His voice is barely above a whisper. Then he’s gone, the door shutting, but I hear him talking to the owner, thanking him for the kit and ice.

Tears continue to fall like rivers down my face. They haven’t slowed. Not even a little. I’m shaking so badly I can hardly sit. I can’t believe that happened. I nearly died. I would have if my own criminal hadn’t saved me.

She was right. It’s too dangerous here. Someone will always try to take me.