Kidnapped by the Billionaire(11)

She might be a babe in the woods, but dammit, this babe was not going to let herself be eaten.

When the bath was partly full, she turned off the water and stood there  looking down at it for a moment. Then taking one more breath, she  stepped into the tub fully clothed.

It was warm, so that helped her relax, but unfortunately it made her  palms get even damper, which did not help her grip on the scissors.  Dammit, when should she do this?

She sat for a second, just listening. But there was no sound from the outside.

Okay, the longer she sat here, the more likely she'd lose her nerve. Which meant if she didn't do it now, she was screwed.

Violet took one last deep breath and gripped the scissors, angling her hands.

Then she brought the blades down hard across her wrist.



Elijah shook out the paper and stared at the newsprint in front of him.  It hadn't made the front page, but there it was on page two. Evelyn  Fitzgerald, found dead in his home yesterday, the victim of a  professional hit.

People on the sidewalk brushed past him but he ignored them as he stared  at the paper. It pretty much said the same thing as all the other stuff  he'd gleaned from his media search of the web that morning. Two dead  bodyguards, signs of a fight in Fitzgerald's private office, plus other  evidence apparently pointed to a paid hit carried out by a business  competitor.

Fucking Zac Rutherford must have cleaned everything up, including planting evidence.

Which all in all was extremely good since it meant the heat was off him.  All he had to worry about was Violet, and with any luck it would be  days before they realized she was missing.

How goddamn weird to think he had Rutherford to thank for that.

Satisfied, Elijah bunched up the paper and dumped it in the nearest  trash can. As he did so, the burner phone in his pocket vibrated. He  pulled it out, glancing down at the screen.

His sense of satisfaction deepened.

It was a text from an unknown number and all it said was I need proof.

Excellent. Jericho was interested. Not that Elijah had any doubt. From  what Fitzgerald had told him, the man had been unshakable in his desire  for Violet, which in turn had made Fitzgerald cocky about the  concessions he'd planned to get from the guy.         

     



 

Elijah didn't want concessions. All he wanted was Jericho personally  coming to get Violet, at which point he'd figure out the best way to  take the prick out. And he would take him out, that was absolutely  certain.

But first, he had to get that proof.

I'll send a photo, he texted back.

There was a slight pause. You have two hours.

So Fitzgerald hadn't been wrong. The guy really was desperate.

Not bothering with a response, Elijah put his phone away and headed back  toward the apartment. He'd take a couple of pics of Violet then send  them on, no drama.

Ten minutes later, he unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside.  Violet wasn't in the living area or, after a quick check, in the  kitchen.

Jesus, if she'd gone into his damn bedroom again after he'd told her not to  …

He stepped into the hallway and glanced down toward his bedroom. Then he  heard a slight sound coming from the bathroom. Frowning, he pushed open  the door and went in.

Violet was sitting in the bathtub fully clothed. A bathtub full of pink  water. Her handcuffed wrists were resting on her knees and she was  hunched over, a thin stream of blood oozing from a nasty, ragged-looking  cut across her left wrist. A pair of tiny nail scissors were lying on  the floor.

Holy fuck. What the hell had she done? No, scratch that. It was  completely obvious what she'd done. She'd tried to slit her wrists.

A surge of some emotion he couldn't immediately identify went through  him, but he ignored it, going instantly into cold, calm crisis mode.

He didn't speak, moving quickly across the bathroom, pausing only to  grab a hand towel from the rail. She turned her head, her face almost  dead white, her eyes heavy lidded.

"Hey," she said in a thick voice. "Was wondering when you'd get here."

Ignoring her, Elijah took his keys from his pocket and unlocked the  cuffs around her wrists, getting rid of all her bracelets as well as the  cuffs. There were marks on her skin, prompting another odd surge of  that emotion he couldn't quite figure out, but he ignored that too.  Wrapping the hand towel around her cut wrist, he pulled it tight. She  gave a small groan. Bending, he reached into the lukewarm water of the  bath and scooped her out of it. Her clothes were dripping wet, bloody  water everywhere, and she was starting to shiver.

With ruthless efficiency and without hesitation, Elijah stripped her of  her bloody, wet clothing, then wrapped her in one of the big black bath  towels. She didn't protest, just let him do what he wanted, her  dreadlocks hanging wetly down her back, her skin so white her face  looked like a Kabuki mask.

Leaving her sitting on the side of the tub wrapped in the towel, he  hunted for the medical kit and found it lying on the floor, all its  contents strewn around. So that's where she'd found the scissors. He'd  forgotten they were there. Stupid.

Gathering up the medical kit contents, he packed everything back in the  box before going back over to Violet. Then he lifted her into his arms,  grabbed the box with one hand, and carried both of them out into the  lounge area.

She was warm in his arms, resting against him limply, all the fight gone out of her.

Sitting down on the couch with her in his lap, he put the medical kit  down beside him, then carefully grabbed her cut wrist. The blood had  clotted nicely, but he could see she'd cut quite a hole in it. No tendon  damage from the looks of things and she'd also managed to miss the  vein.

Christ, she was lucky.

"Are you going to take me to the hospital?" she asked, slurring a little.

He glanced at her. Her eyes had half closed, turquoise blue framed by pale golden lashes, watching him.

Ah. So that's what she'd been trying to do.

The odd emotion inside him shifted, making his chest tighten. Couldn't  be respect, surely. Why the hell would he respect a silly little girl  who'd slit her wrists in an effort to get away from him?

She's a fighter, that's why.

"No," he said flatly, dismissing both the thought and the emotion.

Instead he reached for the medical kit and got out some Vicodin. "Here,  take these." Pressing a couple of tablets into her good hand, he leaned  forward and picked up the glass of water left over from her breakfast.

She took the tablets without a protest and swallowed them down, watching  him as he took out the other things he was going to need. A needle and  some surgical thread.

"Oh," she said.

He really should wait until the drugs had kicked in, but he didn't like  the look of that wound and she couldn't afford to lose any more blood  otherwise he really would have to take her to the hospital.

With a series of quick, precise movements, he cleaned the wound,  ignoring her gasp of pain. Then he threaded the needle. "This might  hurt," he said and gripped her wrist hard.         

     



 

Violet took an audible breath, but said nothing.

Elijah pushed the needle into her skin. Her wrist tensed, her muscles  locking, another soft gasp escaping her. But after that she made no  other sound.

It didn't take long to get the wound closed up, Violet silent  throughout. Then he bandaged it quickly. She'd started to shiver again  and he realized that not only was the towel covering her damp, but his  own T-shirt was wet through and she'd been resting against him.

He couldn't have said why he did what he did next, especially since  there was no reason at all for it. Physical discomfort had never  bothered him that much after all. Yet he pulled his wet and bloody  T-shirt off over his head anyway and threw it on the floor. Then he  unwrapped her from the towel and reached for the soft, dark blue blanket  he'd given her the night before, tucking it firmly around her and  covering up all her pale, golden skin.

Then for another seemingly inexplicable reason, he pulled her into his  lap again, letting her rest warmly against his bare chest.

Shock must have kicked in, either that or the painkillers were starting  to work, since she turned into him and curled up against him like a  kitten.

It was the strangest thing. He'd captured her, shot at her, kept her  handcuffed nearly a whole day, threatened her with being locked in a  dark room with no light and with starvation, and yet here she was,  nestling into him like he was her protector or something.

Had to be the drugs. Had to be.

Her lashes were lowered, her gaze on his chest, and she was so fucking  warm. It had been a long, long time since he'd just held a woman like  this. A long time since he'd held a woman, period. Not since Marie.

That goddamn stupid feeling in his chest shifted again, tightening.

The light from the windows glinted in her golden lashes, in her damp  hair. Such a pretty color, more silver gold than deep yellow, a kind of  gilt. Her skin was very smooth and still way too pale. But it made her  mouth look very full and very red. Like Snow White.

Jesus. Why the fuck are you thinking about Snow White? What the hell is wrong with you?