“You do,” he agrees. “But you also need to get Andrei. Settle this once and for all. And having a showdown in the middle of the freeway won’t do.”
He’s right, there’s no argument about that. But I have an intense pressure inside of me which only breeds every moment she’s trapped in that car. It’s the same pressure I felt when I killed Blaine. When I saw him hurting her. I don’t understand this emotion. I don’t know how to sort it out or even what to call it. I only know that when it comes to anyone hurting Sasha, I will always feel this way. The only balm for the fire inside is to eliminate the threats against her. To destroy anyone who thinks they can touch Sasha.
It’s the single thought keeping me from going mad right now. Planning Andrei’s murder and bathing the floor with his blood. I will make him suffer. I will make his death a thousand times worse than any he’s ever saw fit to dole out. The butcher will know real pain when I’m finished with him.
The car ahead exits off the freeway, and I follow. Daisy starts to whine in the backseat and Scarlett pulls her into her lap.
“This dog looks familiar,” she says.
I ignore her because my attention is focused only on the Denali. They’re driving into a rural area. A sure sign they’re leading us directly to Andrei. When they turn off onto a dirt road, Rory taps the dashboard to get my attention.
“You need to slow down, lad. It’s only going to put Sasha at risk if they catch onto us. We’re not going to lose them.”
I pull my foot from the accelerator and attempt to calm myself. The rage is coiling tighter inside. I’m losing control. And all I can think of is Sasha and my baby. These pigs might do something before I can get to her.
“No.” I push my foot back down and focus my attention up ahead. “It has to be dealt with now.”
“Fitz,” Rory tries to argue, but I’m past the point of being rational.
Scarlett doesn’t seem to have an opinion on the current events as she continues to talk about the dog. I’m not listening much, until some of her words capture my attention.
“Princess,” she says. “That’s what her name was.”
“Her name is Daisy,” I argue. “Sasha picked it.”
“But where did you get her?” Scarlett asks.
Rory glances at me when I don’t answer because he already knows. Conor’s been giving me shite about it in front of the lads every time I go to the club.
“Being as ye’re not going anywhere…” Rory meets Scarlett’s eyes in the mirror. “I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you this was Donny’s dog.”
Scarlett wrinkles her nose and glares back at him. “Keep trying to find reasons to make me stick around. I promise you’ll get sick of me soon enough.”
“I doubt that very much,” is Rory’s only reply.
The car falls silent, and I’m glad for it. I’ve no need for this carry on while I’m trying to focus on Sasha. But Scarlett won’t let up about the bleeding dog.
“Was she wearing a pink collar?” she persists. “With a crown on it?”
This time, I do meet her gaze in the mirror. I don’t like that she knows that.
“What’s it to you?” I ask.
“I thought so,” she answers smugly. “It is princess. I know who owns this dog, and it isn’t Donny.”
“I own the dog,” I growl. “She’s mine. And Sasha’s. She’s ours.”
Scarlett just shrugs. “Well that may be the case, but I know who owned her before.”
I open my mouth to argue when Rory taps me on the shoulder. He gives me a look, and it conveys everything I need to know. This could be important. Whoever owned that dog might be the same person that’s been leaking information to the feds.
“I’d love to hear all about that,” Rory tells her as he turns around in his seat. “Maybe ye just might be useful after all.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sasha
“We’ve got company,” the man driving the car observes.
His eyes keep flicking to the rearview mirror, and a seed of hope blooms inside of me.
Ronan.
It has to be him. I have to believe that Ronan has come for us. That he isn’t going to let me die like this. Let our baby die.
The man beside me picks up his phone and makes a call, muttering a quick string of indecipherable words. He’s short-tempered, and the voice on the other end of the line sounds even more so. There’s a tiny farmhouse up ahead, which I suspect is where they’re taking me. There’s only one dirt road out of here, and we’re on it.
Which means that whoever is behind us has got us trapped.
The men in the front seat speak in rapid fire Russian while I try to crane my neck and get a look at the car behind us. It’s too dusty though, and the minute I turn, the man beside me grabs me by the hair and yanks my head back around.