"I know. Did the man who did this say anythin' to ya?"
She bit her lip as I continued to apply pressure to the wound with the bunched up material of her shirt. "He said . . . he said, something about reminding my brother about what happens to people who don't repay their debts." Her eyes met mine, wide and full of fear. "Oh God, Brogan, he was one of the men Stuart owes money to. I thought you said you were working with them and that—"
"Motherfuckers!" I swore, dropping my hands and leaning back against the opposite wall. "We need to get out of here. Can you walk?" I guided her hand to where I had been using mine to apply pressure to her wound.
"Yes. But wait, what about Stuart? He might be—"
"Fuck Stuart!" I started to pull her.
"No!"
I attempted a calming breath. Was she really going to dig her heels in now? "Lydia, you're bleeding. I need to get you safe and get you bandaged. Stuart is fine. This was a warning for him already set in motion. I talked to the men holding his loans this morning and we're almost done negotiating a deal." What I didn't say was that after this, it was done. I'd agree to anything. The warning meant to convince me had worked in just the way they'd planned. I glanced down to the blood-soaked material where Lydia held her hand as I worked to control my breathing. "Now please," I said, more gently, "come with me."
"You really almost have a deal worked out?"
"Yes."
She hesitated briefly before allowing me to lead her from the doorway. "Wait, my bag, my phone . . ." she uttered, pointing to where they both still lay near the curb. The fact that she'd brought all her belongings gutted me. She'd meant to leave. Permanently.
I led her there quickly and picked both up, noticing that the screen of her phone was shattered. Once we were across the street in the safety of my car, I reached behind me into a gym bag on the floor of the backseat and retrieved a small towel. "Here," I said, handing it to her, "this is thicker than your shirt. Apply it to your wound." My hands trembled as I wiped them on my pants so they wouldn't be slippery with blood and then started my car, pulling out into traffic. Needed to get her back to my apartment. Needed to make sure she was safe.
I glanced over at Lydia who was leaning back in the seat, her face pale, her hand pressed to her side. This was my fault. Christ Almighty, enough. I wanted to scream and break things. I bloody hated myself for this. And Lydia would too, if she didn't already. Clenching my jaw, I forced myself to focus on just getting us home.
As I drove, I made a quick call to Fionn, explaining the situation and telling him to send Margaret to my apartment. He didn't ask questions, just took directions, said he'd handle it and hung up. My shoulders relaxed slightly.
Ten minutes later I pulled into the underground garage, and five minutes after that, I was leading Lydia through my apartment door. I guided her immediately to the bathroom in her bedroom and had her sit on the edge of the tub. Digging in the cabinet under the sink, I found the first aid kit and returned to Lydia. "I need you to take off your shirt," I said. She hesitated, but lifted it over her head. The cut on her side was bright red and stood out in stark contrast to her creamy skin. And it sent the message loud and clear: you are not safe, not anywhere, even on a crowded street. We own Stuart De Havilland, and now, we own you and those you care about. I knew how these men operated. I'd worked for them. "Does it hurt?" I asked, my voice hoarse with the rage I was barely holding back.
"Not much," she said softly, but she took in a sharp breath when I dabbed rubbing alcohol on it.
"I'm going to kill those bastards," I muttered under my breath, rubbing antibiotic ointment on her skin. She let out a tired-sounding sigh.
"Are you really helping Stuart? Do you promise you are?"
I glanced up at her as I laid a piece of bandage on the cut and lifted her hand to apply pressure to it the way I had before. "I gave you my word I was, Lydia. I talked to them this morning. It's why I left before you woke up." I thinned my lips, not wanting to think about the bargain I'd been hesitating to make.
Her eyes moved over my face as if she was trying to determine whether I was telling her the truth or not. "I shouldn't have left. I just . . ."
"I understand," I said. We needed to talk. As I was opening my mouth to say so, the buzzer sounded from the street. "That's a nurse to stitch you up."
She frowned. "Do you really think that's necessary? It's so small and it doesn't seem too deep . . ."
"Aye." I didn't want her to have a scar, a reminder of the way in which I'd failed her. "Just a few. When it heals, you won't even know it was there."
"Oh, well, okay. If you think so."
"I do." I turned at the doorway. "I can bring you some lunch when it's done."
She nodded. "That sounds good." My eyes lingered on her face for a moment. She looked tired—likely from getting wasted the night before—but she also looked weary as if the events of last night and today were weighing heavily on her mind. Feck. Just when I'd erased that look from her eyes, it was back again. Because of her fuckwit brother, but also because of me.
I hurried down the stairs and rang Margaret in and then waited by the open door. She stepped out of the elevator with a small bag in her hand. "What did ya do now, Brogan Ramsay?"