The Salvation of Vengeance (Wanted Men #2) by Nancy Haviland Page A

did, and saw him beside her. “Where is he, babe? Goddammit, Red!” he exploded. “Why didn’t you stay with me?”
    The tortured sound of his voice faded in and out. Why was he here? Did he really just ask why she hadn’t stayed with him ? And had he called her babe ?
    “Knife,” she mumbled again as she struggled to sit up through the waves of vertigo assaulting her.
    “What knife, Nik?”
    “I need. A knife!”
    She’d wanted to scream, but her words came out weak and slurred.
    “Here.” Vincente handed her an open butterfly. Bless his bloodthirsty heart.
    She took it from him with shaking hands. “Fire escape,” she breathed, wanting them to know where Kevin had gone. She accidentally cut herself twice, shoving her brother’s hands away when he would have confiscated her tool. But, finally, she sliced open the fabric on the side of the suitcase enough to work her bruised and bleeding hand inside. Her fingers wrapped around a smooth plastic shape.
    And Nika’s tears fell.
    Soundless sobs tore from her throat, racking her body as she pulled the stick free. She held it up for her brother to see. “I got it,” she whispered hoarsely, voice raw. “I saved us, Caleb. I did it.”
    Vincente’s strong arms came around her waist to pull her back, but she kept her eyes on her brother. He shook his head, his expression a mix of utter confusion, horror, and grief. “Nik, I don’t understand.”
    She couldn’t dredge up enough energy to explain. Not with the heat from Vincente’s body suddenly surrounding her. Not with his gentle palm stroking so softly over her wet hair.
    Wet? Why was her hair wet?
    She saw his hand come away with a bright-red smear on it. It was then she slipped down, sliding like mist into the dark.
    Just gave up and floated away from her broken body.

    Vincente watched the blood drip off his wrist and felt panic frost his organs. Without hesitating, he whipped out his cell and called Tegan.
    “Hey. Gabriel said you might—”
    “What do I do for a profusely bleeding head wound?” His voice cracked like a whip.
    “Something clean. Firm pressure. Lay them down. Who is it, Vin? Are you okay?” Tegan slipped into MD mode without missing a beat.
    “Hang on.” He grabbed a pillow that was half under the bed. Fuck that—it was filthy. He shouldered his shirt off, sliding it behind Nika’s head. With his palm on her forehead, he pulled her back so that his chest acted as the wall against the makeshift press. He needed his hands free to carry her. Snatching his phone back up from the grungy carpet, he talked fast. “I’m fine. Nika isn’t. Are you still at the house?”
    “Yes.”
    “We’ll get there as fast as we can. Please, T. Be ready. She’s . . . bad.”
    Why wasn’t the state of emergency siren wailing in the distance? he wondered as he hung up and stood. How could the hotel and the buildings around them still be standing through the funnel cloud that was warping his thoughts? Nika’s weight barely registered in his arms as he and Caleb got moving.
    “You okay to drive?” he asked the biker, whose eyes were locked on his sister. “We’re going back to my place, not the clubhouse.”
    “Of course. What the fuck did she mean she ‘saved us’?” Caleb asked as the color slowly, too slowly, returned to his face. “Gimme the keys. I’ll bring the truck around back. Actually, no, that’ll waste time. No one’s gonna bother with questions in this shithole anyway.”
    And he was right. Not one person—and they passed by seven of them from the room to the hotel entrance—even raised a brow at the sight of two obvious heavies carrying an unconscious, bleeding woman away. Vincente wanted to rage at that but was too busy trying to tamp down his alarm at how utterly still Nika was.
    The second he was in the backseat of his truck, with her body sprawled across him and Paynne flying out of Brooklyn toward Old Westbury, he was on the phone again.
    “What’s happening?”