style="font-size:15px;"> Despite her mental fog she could see the worry in his face. The cold, hard glint at the back of his arctic-blue eyes. Fury, she knew. Fury that she’d been hurt by a vicious escapee bent on revenge against him.
“Not…your…fault.”
“Don’t talk.” He set the cup back on the nightstand. “Sleep.”
His words might have been comforting, but the tone was much too controlled. She could almost feel the emotion slicing at him.
“Bran, wasn’t…your…fault.”
“Quiet.” He pressed his fingertips gently against her lips. “The doc said you’ve got bruised vocal cords. Meaning, I get to tell you to shut up, and you have to mind.”
Not even the sedative oozing through her system could numb the awareness from his touch that punched into her stomach. Her internal thermostat clicked up several degrees.
Great. She’d almost died a couple of hours ago. Her throat felt like a construction zone. She had enough drugs in her system to fell an elephant. Yet all it took was one touch from her sexy, soon-to-be ex and her body shifted into sizzle-and-burn mode.
She made a feeble attempt to draw her defenses together. The task, she discovered, was impossible with a brain marinated in drugs.
“You’re safe.” He ran a thumb over her lower lip while his fingers stroked her cheek. “No one’s going to hurt you again. You have my word, Tory. Never again.”
Her last thought before sliding into oblivion was that the ache in her throat had shifted to her heart.
His fingers still caressing her cheek, Bran watched her eyes flutter shut as the drug pulled her all the way under. Her long hair was a golden tangle around her shoulders, her skin as white as the sheet that covered her. This was not the Victoria Lynn Dewitt McCall he knew. This woman looked weak and fragile. Too weak, too fragile.
The image of her kneeling in the parking lot, the chain garroting her throat while she struggled for air scraped him raw. She was lying in a hospital bed because of him, hurt because of him. It was all he could do not to smash his fist into the wall.
He thought about Officer Susan Garcia, whose husband had been shot in the Jaguar. Bran closed his eyes. While Tory had been in the ER, he had checked with his captain. The body of Zelewski’s Realtor-wife had been found inside one of the vacant houses she had a listing on. Tory could so easily have died tonight, too.
Cops didn’t talk about the dangers of the job. They just lived with them. But not the dangers to their families. Knowing that Heath had sent one of his scum pals to kill his wife was something Bran had no intention of just living with. The need for revenge twisted into a dark, keen thirst that had his fingers trembling against her cheek.
Sensing the door behind him swing open, Bran pivoted, his hand going to the Glock holstered at the small of his back. His eyes narrowed when Danny Dewitt stepped into the room.
Tall and lanky, Tory’s brother was clad in well-worn jeans, a tattered T-shirt and a scruffy denim jacket. His brown boots were scuffed beyond redemption, his black hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail. Since Bran had called the kid, he knew the sight of his eighteen-year-old brother-in-law shouldn’t put his teeth on edge.
But it did. Always did.
Danny rushed to the bed, his eyes filled with concern. “Tor?” When she didn’t answer, he gave his sister a long, silent examination, then met Bran’s gaze. “You said she’s not hurt bad, right?” he asked, his words aching and unsteady. “She’ll be okay?”
“Yeah.” Because the kid’s face had paled and there was pure fear in his eyes, Bran softened his voice. “The doc said she’ll be good as new after a couple of days of rest.”
“Okay. That’s a relief.” Danny looked back at his sister. “What about the guy who hurt her?”
“We got him.” He hadn’t yet told Tory she’d killed her attacker. If she wanted her brother to know, she could tell him later. “There’s one still on the run. He probably has some pals hiding him so he won’t be easy to find. But we’ll get him eventually.” If it took his entire life, he would find Heath. “Until then, Tory will be with me. I’ll make sure she’s safe.”
“I trust you to do that.” Danny paused, then turned. “So, Tor’s out of commission for a few days?”
Bran noted that the look in his green eyes had transformed from concern to calculation. “For as long as it takes. You have a particular reason for asking how long?”
“Yeah.” Danny jabbed his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. “I’ve had some…unexpected stuff come up. Now that I’ve got my driver’s license back I need some wheels in the worst way. The worst. Do you think it’d be okay if I use Tor’s car until she’s back on her feet?”
“Her car’s a crime scene,” Bran snapped. The question stoked the anger already simmering inside him. “Dewitt, your sister almost died tonight. Are you getting this? She almost died. I called because I thought you cared about her. After all, she raised you. Supported you. Turns out, all you’re concerned about is getting your hands on her car.”
“I love her,” Danny shot back. “I get what happened to her.” His face tightened with anger. “You’ve already said she’ll be fine. That you’ll protect her.”
“Bet on it.”
“I am. It’s just that….”
“Go on.”
“Tor’s not the only person I’m worried about right now.”
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