Ramsay(41)

"Lydia," I rasped, pushing the man aside.

"I was just trying to help," he muttered from somewhere seemingly far away and then obviously moving on.

"Brogan?" Lydia said, confused and pale.

I pulled her to her feet. "Can you stand?" I asked, my voice shaking.

Had the man knocked her over on purpose? She weaved toward me, her hand  again going to her side, a look of startled confusion on her face. I  looked down to her waist and saw the bright red stain coming through the  fabric of her striped shirt. Oh Lydia, Lydia. Oh feck.

My breath came out in wild pants as I walked her across the sidewalk to  stand under the awning of a closed service entrance to Stuart's  building.

I looked quickly back in the direction the blond man had gone, but  didn't see a trace of him. Fedor Ivanenko. The unusual height . . . the  white-blond hair . . . it had to be. I wanted to roar with rage and  helplessness. I wanted to sprint after him and pound his face into the  concrete. But if I was right about who that'd been, he would be long  gone by now. The mob didn't hire hit men who didn't know how to make a  quick getaway.

I moved Lydia until she was leaning against the inside wall of the  entryway and inched the fabric of her shirt up, my hands shaking. I used  the hem of her shirt to clean away the blood in order to assess the  wound, my heart beating out of my chest. When I'd cleared some of it  away, I saw it was mostly a flesh wound, deep enough to need stitches,  but not deep enough to cause real injury. "Thank God," I breathed.  "Thank God. Are ya okay?"

"I, I think so," she said. "I was just walking down the street and . . ."

"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?"

I couldn't help smiling at the sight of Margaret's warm, open smile. She  had provided nursing care for Fionn or me more times than I could  count, whether it was back in the days when we ourselves got in fights  we couldn't avoid on the streets, or whether she answered our call to  help someone else who didn't want to make a trip to the hospital for one  reason or another. She was good and kind and didn't force answers we  didn't want to give.

"My friend got attacked in the street-a knife. She needs a few stitches."

"Aye, so Fionn said. Do ya know who attacked her?"

"Aye."

She studied me for a moment. "All right, well, where is the girl then?"                       
       
           



       

"She's upstairs in the guest room on the right." I walked her to the  stairs and as she ascended, I said, "Thanks, Margaret." She nodded, not  looking back.

When she'd disappeared around the corner, I took my phone from my pocket and texted the men I'd met with that morning.

You have a deal. I want your word that no harm will come to Lydia De Havilland ever again.

I paced in a small circle at the base of my stairs until my phone dinged a few minutes later with one simple word. Deal.

A knock sounded on the door, interrupting me from my murderous thoughts. Fionn. "You could have let yourself in," I said.

He shook his head. "I didn't want to disturb anythin'-like maybe Lydia in the act of cuttin' off your ballsack."