His to Take (Wicked Lovers #9)(97)
Author: Shayla Black

Her tears fell harder. Concern stabbed him, slicing him down deep. How much more could she take in a short period of time? He’d ripped apart her entire world. Yes, to save her. Mostly to avenge Nate, to rail against the injustice of some asshat shooting the only friend he’d let himself have.

Now guilt ripped him a new one.

“I can’t.” She struggled to inhale, but kept tripping over her tears.

Her sobbing had destabilized her respiratory system. She looked too pale, her eyes too blue in her haunted face. He fucking had to help her.

Joaquin gripped her shoulders. “Baby girl, look at me. Right into my eyes. You have to take a deep breath. Yes . . .” He praised when she finally managed. “Now, let it out and tell me what scared you.”

She hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. She cried quietly now, but she still cried all the same. He fucking wished he could take this pain from her. If he’d never crashed into her life and had somehow managed to catch McKeevy and LOSS without destroying her world . . . But then he would never have met Bailey. She wouldn’t have had the chance to completely change him the way she had.

Damn it, he was in love with her. Fine fucking time to realize it.

“Bailey?” he prodded softly.

She curled up into a tighter ball and shook her head. “Lock up the house. I’ll get myself together.”

He hated leaving her for even an instant, but he didn’t see a choice.

“I’ll be back in less than two minutes. Do you want me to give you my gun?”

Her eyes flew open, filled with terror. “No! Take it. I can’t . . . Go.”

With a grim nod, Joaquin tucked his gun away, then barreled to the house, where he ensured the back door was secure before he let himself out the front, locking it behind him and depositing the key inside the lockbox again. A glance back to the car proved that she hadn’t moved, hadn’t really found her way out of shock yet.

Charging back toward her, Joaquin couldn’t deny he was happy to leave the house, too. It had an ominous vibe; the tragedy of three senseless deaths still scarred the surfaces and disturbed the air. He had to get Bailey away from this place.

By the time he made his way to her once more, she looked even more pale and troubled. He’d seen enough. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” she insisted. “I remembered something . . .”

Her body started shaking again. Sandwiched between the seat and the roof of the vehicle, Joaquin had no way to get to her so he flipped the lever that reclined the seat until she lay back nearly supine, then he leaned over her and cupped her cheek. “We don’t have to talk about this here.”

She nodded vigorously and miserably. “I know what happened to my family.”

“You don’t have to relive McKeevy coming into the house and shooting your loved ones. I understand.”

“But he didn’t.” She took in a shuddering breath. “M-my father did.”

“Viktor Aslanov killed your family? You’re saying he shot them?”

“Yes. I remember everything now. He told me to hide outside quietly, sing my song in my head, and not come back inside. After that, he hugged me, told me he loved me, then went back inside. I heard gunshots, screaming, then more gunshots. Terrible silence followed. I was frozen. I didn’t know what to do. I sat, rocking back and forth. Then McKeevy arrived, wearing some sort of blue military uniform. He busted into the house and yanked my father out, and shoved Viktor into his car. I never saw him again.”

Another rough breath later, Joaquin couldn’t stand that lost look in her eyes. “Ah, baby girl, I don’t know what to say. You lived through hell.”

“I lost everyone.” She sounded bleak, so alone. New tears fell.

Joaquin knew what it felt like to lose. He remembered the awful night his mother had sat him down and told him that his father had been killed. The shock of it had been like a steel bar to the solar plexus. Numbness, denial, rage . . . He remembered every emotion, every step. He’d been nearly thirteen, old enough to understand the concept of death and the reasons behind his father’s ultimate sacrifice. Bailey had been barely five and completely ill-equipped to comprehend death at all, much less that violent tragedy.

When he’d first laid eyes on her, he’d imagined she was a fragile little thing. Now he knew just how damn strong she truly was. He’d crumbled after his father’s death, then cut himself off. Somehow, she’d managed to pick up, make a life, grow up a relatively happy kid. Even after losing the people she’d believed had given birth to her she had continued to persevere.

“Not everyone,” he swore. “I’m here now. I’m not leaving.”