13. Chapter 13

Siren won't stop shaking.

As I gently lower her into my car's passenger seat, I get a slightly closer look at her appearance.

Blood-soaked skin and ripped clothes.

Bruises and cuts and what look like teeth marks where that sadistic fuck must've bitten her.

With the amount of blood pouring from his neck a few minutes ago, he should be good and dead by now.

If he wasn't, I'd go back in there and inflict the worst types of torture on him in return.

Right now, though, my main focus is getting Siren to safety and assessing her injuries.

More so than the obvious ones, I'm worried about the pain I can't see—the emotional toll this has and will continue to take on her.

I'm afraid.

Not for myself but for her.

Afraid that this ordeal will permanently alter the vivacious yet snarky bombshell I met all those weeks ago.

I'm afraid that that sick piece of shit may have pushed her mind past the point of no return and that she won't be able to claw her way back from this.

As I ease the seat belt over her partially covered chest and then carefully close the passenger's side door, my mind whirls with thoughts of what to do next.

I need to get her some place where I can have a doctor look her over, but I know if I try to take her to a hospital, she'll freak out.

I also worry that if, by some miracle of Satan, that bastard in there manages to survive that slice to the neck, he'll try to come for her again.

I need to get her somewhere safe.

I could call the Fed and ask for a favor, but we aren't that close, and without Merrick as a buffer, I don't know how that would work out.

And there's no fucking way I'm calling Merrick right now.

Merrick and Amelia are attached at the hip, and while I know both of them have been worried about Siren's whereabouts, I also know that if Amelia sees her in her current condition, she'll lose it.

Somehow, I don't think Merrick will thank me if I cause his wife to have a meltdown.

His overprotectiveness knows no bounds, and that stood steadfast even before they found out she was pregnant.

I could always just find a safe house somewhere off the grid.

Drop her off, send someone to clean her up, and nurse her back to health.

But for some reason, that felt wrong.

It felt cold, detached, and the polar opposite of everything I'm feeling right now.

My gut instinct screams at me to keep this woman by my side indefinitely.

Which is weird because it's usually telling me to grab my underwear from the floor and run as quickly as possible.

After ensuring she's secured in the passenger's seat, I get in the car, start it, and pull onto the road.

Heading towards the airport, I pick up my phone and make a quick call to have Merrick's plane, which I'd used to get to the auction, ready for takeoff within the next half hour.

I had more money than I knew what to do with, but I still didn't own my own fucking plane.

I wasn't that full of myself.

Instead, I chose to invest my money in gadgets that someone like Merrick wouldn't even know how to turn on.

To each his own .

The ride to the airport is silent, except for the light sniffles I hear coming from the passenger's seat, each evoking a reactionary flinch in me.

I've glanced over a few times, but each time, Siren's face has been turned toward the window, so I haven't been able to quite make out what kind of headspace she's in.

For some reason, the urge to pull the car over and drag her into my lap is nearly overwhelming.

I don't know where these instincts to console and protect are coming from but I do my best to push them from my mind so that I can make rational decisions and focus on getting us where we need to go.

Thirty minutes later, we're pulling onto the tarmac, and I'm carrying Siren up the stairs into the spacious private jet cabin.

I spoke briefly with one of the guys working to ready the plane, who assured me he'd make arrangements to get my car back home.

I think he could tell by the look in my eye that if my car made it back down south with so much as a scratch on the door, he'd be walking with a limp for a week.

The threat was half-hearted at best, considering my attention had been monopolized by the woman in my arms.

I'm just about to sit Siren on one of the leather seats when I look down to find her asleep against my chest.

She'd seemed a little out of it when I'd taken her from the car, but I'd just chalked it up to her being fucking traumatized beyond what most people would be able to comprehend.

Looking down at her now, it's clear that she's exhausted.

Hell, this may be the first time she's been able to relax in weeks.

Moving away from the chair, I gently lay her down on one of the plush couches instead.

She makes a slight whimpering sound that causes my chest to tighten painfully but she doesn't fight me as I settle her into the soft material of the sofa.

I pull a blanket from the back of the couch to cover her sleeping and half-naked form and stare down at her for another long moment.

Before I even realize that I've made up my mind, I'm already heading to the cockpit to inform the pilot that we'll be flying not to Charleston but to Savannah.

Cementing my resolve, I dispel all the reasons why this is a bad idea.

I don't give a shit.

Until I know that Gaspari is indeed dead, she's staying with me.

I have this visceral need to make sure she's alright.

Not just physically but emotionally and mentally as well.

I won't change my mind on this.

I'm taking Siren home to my home .

For the first time in the history of ever, there'd be a woman in my house.

My sanctuary.

God help us both.

The town car that picked us up at the airport slows down to make the turn off the main road and onto the long dirt driveway leading to my house.

When I loaded Siren into the back seat, the driver didn't ask any questions.

He was paid well enough not to.

The ride from the airport to my home was a quiet one.

Siren's awake now but still hasn't spoken.

I can feel my anxiety rising with each passing minute.

Not just at the possibility that that mother fucker Gaspari has permanently broken her but also at the idea of her being in my home.

I've never taken a woman here.

Usually, when I spend the night with someone, it's at their place or a hotel, and I'm usually sneaking out before they can wake up and ask what I want for breakfast.

I liked to eat my eggs alone, thank you very much.

Even so, as my house comes into view, I make a quick glance at Siren to gauge her reaction .

My home isn't anything elaborate.

Hell, I'm only one person.

What the fuck do I need with a big ass house? The small cabin-style home is made from thick logs meant to blend in with the surrounding woods.

As a man that had the ability to invade other people's privacy at will, it made me value mine all the more.

As I briefly glance back and forth between Siren's face and the house, I wonder what she sees.

Is she disgusted by my meager dwelling? The wooden home sports a wraparound porch barely visible past the many shrubs that encircle the house.

The bushes are large and could probably use a trim, come to think of it.

There's one giant window that looks out onto the porch but even at night, no one would be able to see inside.

The glass of all the windows of the house is coated in a product that essentially makes them like that of the kind of two-way mirror found in interrogation rooms.

Besides the main porch window, you can't see much else of the house from this vantage.

Unfortunately, Siren's face gives nothing away.

Staring at the house stoically, she barely waits for the car to come to a stop before she pushes the door open and attempts to haul herself out.

I know she must be in pain, and I'll bet she's weak from all the weight she's lost, but she doesn't even wait for me to get out and come around to help her.

It's clear that the old Siren, the one that snuck out even before I could, the morning after our one night together, is making a resurgence.

At least mentally.

Physically, she's not quite there, and as I reach the other side of the car, I catch her just as her legs go out from under her.

The driver, who's also gotten out and rushed around the front of the car, looks to me for direction.

Giving a nod that conveys both thanks and dismissal, I lift Siren into my arms and watch the man get back in the car and leave.

Taking a steadying breath that has nothing to do with the weight of Siren in my arms and everything to do with the heavy sensation that I'm standing at some type of life-altering turning point, I force my feet to move and take the handful of steps up to the porch.

"I can walk, you know.

You don't have to carry me everywhere."

It's the first time the woman's spoken since I got her out of that hell hole, and, of course, the first words out of her mouth would be something sassy.

Fuck.

How is it possible that even traumatized and covered in dried blood, she still manages to cause my own to burn through my veins like fire? The instinct to protect and coddle her wars with the memories of our single night together and the many other ways I'd like to put that sassy mouth to use.

"I'm just trying to help you.

Don't bite my damn head off," I reply.

She lets out a huff but doesn't say anything more.

Keeping an arm under her knees, I use the hand of the one at her back to open the security panel hidden behind the old-fashioned letter box mounted next to the front door.

Not having my car, the alarms and locks haven't auto disengaged, which is inconvenient, but at least going through the motions of entering reminds me of how secure my home really is.

After entering a 10-digit code, a series of quick beeps prompt me to press my thumb to the screen.

The system reads my thumbprint, and the sound of several clicks comes from just inside the door, indicating that the deadbolt and door have been unlocked.

Using the same hand, I turn the handle and push the door open enough to allow us through.

Kicking it shut behind us, I don't give Siren much time to look around before I stride over to the couch along the left wall of the living room and gently place her down.

Pulling out my phone, I wander a few steps away as I call a very discreet physician I've worked with in the past when a few jobs have gone south on me.

The man was known to most only as "The Doctor".

I knew Theo Aristille to be a first-generation American of French Creole lineage with strong ties to his home state of Louisiana.

Raised by his grandmother after his mother died giving birth to his younger sibling, he traveled frequently between Louisiana and Savannah.

The 35-year-old doctor catered to a very specific type of clientele.

Rich, secretive, and criminal.

From everything I knew about him, including everything he didn't know I knew, he seemed like a genuine, if eccentric, man.

Right now, I didn't give two shits about his upbringing or who else he made house calls to.

All I cared about was that he was near enough to come out and look Siren over.

After a brief conversation, I'm thankful he's in Savannah "on business"

and said he could be here within the hour.

As I turn back to Siren, it's to catch her inspecting the living room around us.

Unlike the outside, when I wasn't sure what she was thinking about the appearance of my home, this time, I know what she sees—a warm and inviting space with a large couch and several cushy armchairs.

A coffee table, handmade from driftwood, sits between the seating area and the large fireplace on the opposite wall.

An equally sizeable flat-screen TV hangs just above the mantle.

A mantle decorated with framed photos of me with the few people I consider family.

Me and Mama on the beach.

Me and Merrick on the day that he and Amelia got married.

Me, photobombing the two of them during one of our many outings together.

There's also one of Siren and I dancing in a bar.

That was the night Merrick went all caveman and threw Amelia over his shoulder and hauled her outside for having the audacity to let another man touch her.

Neither of them knew that Siren and I had shared a dance after they left.

I'd gotten the picture from hacking into the bar's security cameras and pulling the feed from that night.

Quickly stepping in front of the mantle, I grab the frame and pull it down, hiding it behind my back before she has a chance to see it.

As I watch, her eyes narrow on me and I'm sure if she had the strength, she'd already be across the room and attempting to snatch it out of my hand.

As much as I hate the idea of her in pain, I thank my lucky stars that she's not able to wrestle me for the picture.

She's already given me shit about being obsessed with her.

If she realized I had a photo of her in my house, I'd never hear the end of it.

"I've called a doctor.

He should be here within the hour to check you out.

Do you need anything? A drink? Something to eat? Some … Band-Aids?"

I ask, wincing after the last part.

I don't know how to make small talk with women.

Don't get me wrong; I could turn on the charm with no problem when I was trying to get into their pants.

Whenever I had to have a real conversation that didn't revolve around sex, I was actually awkward as fuck.

It was the curse of being part computer nerd, I guess.

Thank God I had my looks to fall back on, or I'd still be a virgin, getting my jollies from lurking around OnlyFans.

"You're more attractive when you're nervous,"

she replies with a snort, but her tone holds only a fraction of its usual bite.

For some reason that I can't quite put my finger on, I don't like that fact.

"You're more snarky when you're injured,"

I say in return, waiting to see if she'll take the bait and come back at me the way she's done in the past.

We stare at each other for a long moment before she breaks eye contact to gingerly bring her legs up onto the couch, laying her head down on one of the several throw pillows that litter each end.

She lets out a heavy sigh and closes her eyes, effectively dismissing me.

I can't explain why I'm disappointed, but I am.

Within minutes, I hear her breathing even out and know she's fallen asleep again.

Quietly, I move to the couch, repeating the motion of taking the fleece blanket off the back and putting it over her, just like I did on the plane.

Easing myself down into one of the nearby chairs, I stare at her blood-stained hand that's gone slack from where she was clutching the two halves of her top together and can't stop myself from remembering another time that I sat next to a couch, staring at a woman.