Mine to Keep by Cynthia Eden

out, especially with Skye so close.  His hands slid over her, checking for injuries, making absolutely sure that she was safe and whole.
    “
Trace!”
Her voice held definite bite now as she grabbed his hands.  “Stop it and tell me—
are you okay?”
    Nothing that a few stitches wouldn’t cure.  “Yes, baby, I am.” And so was she. He had to remember that.
    “Mr. Weston!” The frantic shout reached him. “Mr. Weston! I’m coming to get you out!”
    Trace lifted his head. He glanced over and saw that the right side of the vehicle was a tangled mess.  The door was twisted. The windows shattered.
    But a groan of sound heralded the opening of the door on the left-hand side of the vehicle.
    The driver—a young guy named Matt Norris—peered in and, with a shaking voice, he asked, “Please, sir, please, tell me you’re okay—”
    “We’re okay.” It was Skye who responded.
    Trace helped her to slide out, and he followed right behind her. As soon as they were clear of the wreckage, he grabbed Matt. His fingers fisted on the man’s jacket. “What the
fuck
just happened?”
    “Please, it’s not my fault! I-I waited for the light to change, but the other car came out of n-nowhere!”
    Trace’s head turned to study the scene. They were in the middle of an intersection.  It was close to midnight, and the dark road was eerily silent. Glass littered the ground. Chunks of metal from the crash were scattered across the street.
    A blue BMW had smashed right into the side of the limo. The driver’s side door hung open, swaying slightly.
    “Where’s the driver?” Skye asked.
    “H-he ran off,” Matt said. “I called out for him to stop, but he kept going.”
    A siren echoed in the distance.  Trace shoved Matt away from him.
    “He must’ve been drunk,” Matt told them. “He ran cause…cause he knew the cops would realize it, right? They’d be able to tell that he’d been drinking.”
    Fury tightened Trace’s body.
    Another car braked near the scene. A man poked his head out. “Dear God, is everyone all right?”
    Trace stared at the wreckage.  A hit and run. A drunk driver?
    “Trace…” Skye’s hand wrapped around his shoulder. “You lied to me.”
    He flinched. “Skye, I—”
    She wiped the blood from his face. “You are hurt. You need stitches.”
    “It could’ve been worse,” he told her, and the words were true. So terrifyingly true. Because what if she’d been hurt?
    The siren was coming closer.  Someone, somewhere had called for help. Maybe one of the folks in the apartments down the road. Lights gleamed from those buildings.
    Or maybe the call had even come from the SOB who’d hit them and fled.
    His gaze tracked around the scene. Lifted. He stared at the red lights.
    And at the cameras mounted near them.
    A grim smile curved Trace’s lips.
    I’ll find you, asshole.
    Because no one hurt him and just walked away.  
    ***
    “What the hell happened to you?” Noah demanded as he stepped into Trace’s office. Then his lips twisted. “Wait, let me guess, a fight with the little ballerina?”
    Trace glared at him. He’d gotten the stitches only because Skye insisted. The cut was high on his forehead, deep and, yeah, he knew it would scar. He didn’t care.
    He rolled his shoulders, trying to push away the tension he felt, and said, “On the way home last night, some asshole drove right into the side of my limo.”
    That wiped the grin right off Noah’s face. “You’re not kidding.”
    When had he ever?
    Trace motioned to the empty chair near his desk.  “He left the scene, ran away on foot.” But the guy wasn’t escaping. Trace had already pulled some strings, and he’d be getting that video footage from the crash scene any minute.  He’d see the man who’d walked—
ran
—away.
    “You think it’s related to Sharpe’s death?”  Now Noah’s voice was cautious.
    Exhaling slowly, Trace decided to put all of his cards on the table. “I don’t know what the hell to