Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2)

Killian lowers a metal ladder, slides down it like a fireman on a pole, grabs me, throws me over his shoulder, and climbs out of the dungeon with swift, silent efficiency. He doesn’t even jostle me on the way up.

I get the feeling he’s done this sort of thing before.

When we reach the top, he flips me over into his arms. He carries me through the wreckage of a building, navigating easily around smoking piles of rubble, stepping over bodies like they’re planks of wood.

The bald guy with the skull tattoo on his Adam’s apple lies on his back with his eyes wide open, a gaping wound in the side of his head where his brains were blown out.

I bury my face in Killian’s tactical vest and close my eyes.

He carefully loads me into the back of an SUV and throws a heavy blanket over me. We drive in silence broken only by the sound of the tires spitting gravel when he takes a curve in the country road too fast.

We park in a deserted field. Then there’s a helicopter ride.

Killian is the pilot, because of course he would be.

I’m behind the pilot’s chair strapped onto a stretcher, wondering how soon is too soon to ask for a shot of tequila.

We land on the roof of a hospital. A team of doctors and nurses sprint out to the helipad to greet us. I’m loaded onto another stretcher and whisked inside.

No one pays any attention to my insistence that I’m fine with the exception of my feet, which might need a Band-Aid or two and a few squirts of Bactine.

Killian runs alongside my stretcher. He’s removed the Darth Vader helmet, but is still loaded with weapons. He scares the shit out of everyone we pass in the halls. I gaze up at him, deeply impressed.

And crazier about him than ever.

We burst through the swinging doors of a room so brightly lit my eyes water. A doctor starts shouting instructions at people in scrubs. They scurry around, turning on machines. I’m parked near a wall bristling with medical instruments.

In full badass mode, Killian stands to one side of the doors with his arms folded over his broad chest and his tree trunk legs braced apart, watching all the activity with laser focus.

His jaw is tight. His nostrils are flared. His eyes threaten murder on anyone who so much as glances at him and takes their attention away from me.

“Hey. Gangster.”

He turns his mutant laser beam eyes to me.

“Is this a bad time to tell you that I’m in love with you?”

Someone is sticking a needle into my arm, but I’m barely aware of it.

Killian’s gaze has turned to fire. It scorches straight through me, the same way it has since the moment we met.

I say, “Because I am. I mean, I have been, but I only realized it recently.”

Nurses run back and forth around the bed, hooking me up to various machines and talking to each other in medical shorthand. I know this is all because of him. All the frenzy of activity and attention. I’m not just another patient.

I’m a patient brought in by the mysterious and powerful Mr. Black.

Obviously, everyone else is as impressed with him as I am.

Actually, the nurses seem impressed, but the doctor looks downright terrified.

I say, “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. You were right: I was scared. I’m not anymore, though. And I promise I’ll make it up to you. Just as soon as all these people quit poking me with needles.”

Killian unfolds his arms, takes two steps forward, and booms, “Everybody out.”

His command rolls through the room like thunder. All the activity comes to a screeching halt.

When he shoots the doctor a threatening look like, Don’t make me have to say it again, the guy waves his arm in the air, saying briskly, “You heard the man. Everybody out.”

He ushers his staff out, letting the doors swing shut behind them.

Then it’s only me and my superhero gangster, staring at each other across the cold hospital emergency suite. My heartbeat monitor sounds like a malfunctioning smoke alarm.

I say, “I’m not dying. Just thirsty. I could use a burger, too. Maybe some fries.”

He takes a step toward me, his gaze darting all over my body and face. He’s searching me for injuries.

“Thank you for arranging all this, but I think I’d rather just go to your bat cave to recuperate, if that’s okay with you.”

His voice is a low rasp. “You’re hurt.”

“Nothing that can’t be easily fixed.”

“You need medical attention.”

“I need you.”

He takes another hesitant step forward, like he wants to keep away but can’t help himself. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants nothing more than to rush over and crush his mouth to mine, to throw himself on top of me and kiss me until we’re both breathless, but he thinks he’ll injure me. He thinks I’m too fragile for that right now.

He doesn’t know that the only thing hurting me is the distance between us.

I say crossly, “I’m dehydrated and hungry. The soles of my feet have seen better days. But otherwise I’m fine, and I’m perfectly lucid, and I really, really need to have you touch me right now, before I lose my freaking mind. Like right now. So step on it.”

It must be the sass that does it. The man can’t resist my sass.

He reaches me in a few quick, long strides, leans down, and takes me into his arms.

He holds me so tightly against his chest I have a hard time breathing.

I turn my face to his neck and inhale deeply, sucking in his scent and clinging to him. Or, rather, to something that feels like it could be a grenade.

His voices comes near my ear as a harsh whisper. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

For not preventing my kidnapping, he means. For being in Prague when he should have been with me. Or maybe for not finding me sooner. Or all of the above.

“Don’t be silly, honey. You saved my life. Again. Also, I think you kind of glossed over the more important development since we last saw each other.”

He pulls away slightly, staring into my face with dark, burning eyes. I gaze at him, feeling better than I have in years.

He says gruffly, “You’re in love with me.”

“Completely.”

He closes his eyes, draws a breath, licks his lips. When he opens his eyes again, they blaze with so much emotion it takes my breath away.

“And you trust me.”

“Implicitly.”

“All of which means…” He draws another ragged breath. “You’re mine.”

I smile. “God help you, but yes. I’m yours. I don’t care what you do for a living, what secrets you keep, or anything else. The thing I’ve been most afraid of my whole life finally happened, and it wasn’t half as bad as the thought that I’d never see you again. All I care about is you.” I pause, smiling up into his face. “Your sister-in-law is pretty great, too.”

He crushes me against his chest again. The hand that cradles my head is trembling.

How I adore it that this big, studly, arrogant badass is such a softie for me.

Then I think of something that hasn’t occurred to me yet, and my mind goes blank with terror. “Oh god!”

He breaks away, frantic. “What? What is it?”

“Truvy! Is she okay? She was with me at the police station! The men didn’t take her, too—”

“No,” he interrupts softly, exhaling in relief. “She’s fine.”

“One minute I was walking right behind her, the next…”

“I know, lass. I know everything that’s happened from then til now.”

I study his face. “How do you know?”

“I’m me.”

He says it without a trace of sarcasm. Then he’s kissing me, tenderly holding my face between his huge, rough hands. Breathing erratically, he kisses my cheeks and my neck and my mouth, every press of his lips possessive and loving.

I laugh softly, closing my eyes, falling deeper into him with every beat of my heart.

Before he reluctantly agrees to take me home, Killian insists I allow the doctor to examine me.

He does, looking like he thinks he’ll be executed by firing squad if he makes a mistake.

I feel a little bad for him, but then we’re leaving, and I can think of nothing else but getting into a hot bath and getting into bed.

Killian’s bed. Where, if I get my way, I will never leave.

The doctor cleaned and bandaged my feet so they’re in much better shape than they were, but Killian insists on carrying me out of the hospital himself. Apparently, a wheelchair is out of the question.

He doesn’t let me sit in front of the SUV with him, either. He bundles me across the back seat, tucking a blanket all around me with fierce concentration.

I don’t mention that it’s probably safer for me up front, what with the seat belts and all, because I sense he’s holding onto his calm by a thread.

We drive in the middle of a caravan of what seems like a hundred black SUVs until we reach the skyscraper he calls his home. When we pull in front of the elevators in the parking garage, there must be fifty armed men lined up along either side. He leaves the car running, runs around to my side, and gently picks me up again.

On the ride up to the penthouse, he’s silent. I don’t know what’s brewing in his head, and I don’t ask. I sense a deep, simmering rage inside him.

I get the feeling those bodies he left behind when he rescued me aren’t going to be nearly enough to slake his fury.

I don’t think he’ll stop taking retribution until the corpses are piled so high they block out the sun.

The first thing he does when we get inside the penthouse is head straight for the bedroom. He sets me carefully on the bed, props my head up on pillows, and tells me he’ll be right back. He returns quickly with a big bottle of water and a plate of food.

Fruit, potato chips, and a tuna fish sandwich.

Seeing that tuna fish sandwich makes me tear up.

While I stuff my face, he disappears into the master bathroom. I hear the sound of running water. I think he’s taking a shower, but he returns fully dressed.

“Bath?”

I groan in anticipation. “Yes, please.”

He nods and drags a hand through his hair. I watch in fascination as he removes his tactical vest, knee pads, boots, socks, and the utility belt of death. He pulls the long-sleeve camouflage shirt over his head and discards it. Beneath it is a bulletproof vest strapped over an olive drab T-shirt, both of which he removes as well.

Then he’s standing bare chested in front of me wearing only a pair of camouflage tactical pants. The kind with all the pockets for stashing knives, radios, scalps, and whatnot.

In a low voice, he says, “I can’t talk about it yet. Not just yet. I’m too…” He shakes his head, looking away and swallowing. “But you have my word I’ll tell you everything. No more secrets.”

Who he is, he means.

What he is.

I say softly, “Okay. Whenever you’re ready. I trust you.”

He cuts his eyes back to me, and now they’re burning. He growls, “I could hear you tell me that every day for the rest of my life.”

My heart is doing something strange. Some kind of weird tango, swinging wildly around underneath my ribcage. But I try to keep the mood light. We’ve had enough drama to last us a while.

“If you play your cards right, gangster, you just might.”

For the first time since he pulled me out of that hole, a flicker of light shines in his eyes. A corner of his mouth tugs up, but fails to convince the rest of his mouth to smile.

He carries me into the bathroom, sits me on the closed toilet lid, and helps me undress. Then he lowers me carefully into the hot water, gently scolding me to keep my bandaged feet up on the edge of the tub so they stay dry.

I just smile at him.

I smile as he washes my skin and my hair, smile as he concentrates on rinsing all the suds off me, smile as he lifts me to the edge of the tub and dries me off with a big, fluffy towel.

For a change of pace, I yawn as he carries me back to bed.

He pulls the covers over me and kisses my forehead. “Do you need anything?”

“Not right now. But when I wake up, watch out. You should probably start stretching.” I yawn again, fatigue starting to overwhelm me. I’m tired down to the marrow of my bones.

“Promises, promises,” he whispers, brushing his lips over my temple.

He sits on the edge of the bed, caressing my hair, until I’m drifting fast into the arms of sleep. Just as I’m about to tumble over a cliff into darkness, he lies down beside me, pulls me back against his chest, kisses the nape of my neck, and sighs.

I mumble, “You okay?”

“Just thinking about your father.”

“While you’re spooning me? That’s vaguely disturbing.”

“I’ll have to go see him soon.”

“Why?”

“To ask him permission to marry you.”

“Ha. Good one.”

I smile and burrow into the pillow, knowing I’m already deep asleep and dreaming.