I’d told Nila two days. I would stick to that promise.
Taking a deep breath, I hoisted myself onto the fold-out stretcher. Flaw had truly come through for me. He’d even packed a small generator so I could charge my phone and keep a light against the slowly creeping dawn.
Goosebumps covered my body, hidden below the thick parka Flaw had given me at the hospital. Winter had well and truly taken hold, determined to remind me that once upon a time I’d welcomed the frost. I’d mimicked winter by absorbing its ice and doing my best to freeze out other emotions.
It was like an old friend, a new enemy, a family member I no longer needed for help.
Grabbing the small electric heater stuffed into the bottom of the duffel, I plugged it into the generator and placed it by my feet. My body didn’t have the reserves it needed to keep warm—not while most of my cells focused on healing my side.
My thoughts drifted to Nila.
Had she arrived at her quarters safely? Was she warm in bed, thinking of me—reliving my fingers inside her, my tongue sweeping hers?
“Shit.” Shaking my head, I did my best to force those thoughts away. My cock was far too eager to attempt a third time.
It didn’t work.
Nila’s moans echoed in my mind. Her voice vibrated in my ears as she admitted she loved me.
How am I supposed to concentrate?
Nila was replaced with images of Kestrel—slowly dying alone in a strange hospital. Then my father leapt into my head, laughing, tormenting.
He’d never grown out of the spoiled brat syndrome—just like Daniel.
I didn’t know the full story of how my father became heir, but my mother had dropped hints. Emma, too—when she was alive. Cut was many things, but he’d told some of his darkest secrets to Emma, knowing they’d die with her with no repercussions.
Livid rage heated my veins, better than any heater.
Now, he’ll pay.
And I knew exactly how I’d do it.
Pulling out my phone, I sent a message to Nila.
Unknown Number: I love you with every breath and heartbeat. Stay true to yourself. Trust me. You’re strong enough; you’re brave enough. You’re my inspiration to end this. Don’t give up on me, Nila. Two days and it’s over.
I didn’t wait for a reply. Waiting would drive me crazy and horrid conclusions would consume me. I had to trust that Jasmine would keep Nila safe and allow me to do what was needed.
Reaching into the duffel, I pulled out the little black address book I’d kept hidden in my room. I’d given Flaw directions on where to retrieve it when he collected me. An address book was archaic nowadays with phones and computers, but I’d never been more thankful for old-fashioned practices.
I had no clue where my old phone was. This was my last record.
Flicking through the dog-eared pages, I sighed with relief, grateful for contacts I could rely on. Men I’d met and were loyal to me, not my father. Men who were ruthless in their own right. Men who could help me win against Cut and his legalities.
My eyes skipped over numbers for acquaintances I’d met on smuggling routes. Outlaws and pioneers, tanker captains and bribed coastguards.
I might have a need for them in the future, but not for this.
I had one man in mind.
There it is.
Arthur ‘Kill’ Killian, Pure Corruption MC.
I doubted many heirs to an English estate would have the personal contact of a president of an American motorcycle club.
But, thank fuck, I did.
Inputting the number, I pressed call on the phone and held it to my ear.
The line crackled, lacking a proper signal in the woods—struggling to connect Buckinghamshire to Florida.
The ringing stopped, followed by a loud screech. “You’ve reached Kill.”
My hand tightened around the phone. “Hawk calling.”
A pause, followed by some shuffling. “Hang on. Let me get somewhere private.”
“Sure.”
I waited for faint voices to fade; Killian came back on the line. “What’s up?”
“I need your help. Do you have trusted brothers in the UK?”