She glanced down at her wrists. “He took them off.”
Drake reached for her hands. That was when she realized that she had scratches and cuts on her palms.
Drake must’ve noticed the damage, too, because he swore and pulled her toward the bathroom.
“It’s all right,” Jasmine tried to tell him when he began to wash the wounds. “I just…some of the bullets hit the windshield, and I put up my hands so that my face wouldn’t get cut by the glass.”
He stilled then and the air in the bathroom seemed to grow very, very tense. Drake’s head turned, and his eyes met hers. “The bullets could have torn right through you.”
“They didn’t,” she whispered back. “I’m all right. I’m here, with you.”
“What if I hadn’t appeared on that street?” The words were hard, but the fingers moving against her skin—cleaning her once more so carefully and bandaging her wounds—they were gentle.
“I’d be dead.”
“No.”
Drake was incredibly powerful, but even he couldn’t stop death.
“I-I think my hands are okay. The scratches were light.” She’d had so much worse. Good thing she had such a high pain tolerance.
He eased away from her. His broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorway. “I keep forgetting how fragile you are.”
Jasmine laughed at that. “Actually, no, you don’t.”
His brows shot up.
“Even when we were in the elevator, and I was so wild I wanted to scratch my way down your back, you held me still…you moved me, made sure that I didn’t pull any stitches.” His hands had been so secure on her. Controlling her movements. Giving her so much pleasure. “You don’t forget anything.” She was certain of that.
His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Princess, that wasn’t about your stitches. I’m a selfish bastard, and I just wanted to screw you deep and hard.”
“Liar,” she barely breathed the charge but Jasmine knew it was the truth.
For a moment, he looked lost, then he blinked, and that image was gone.
“You play so tough, but I can see through you. You didn’t hurt me in the elevator. You didn’t hurt me any time that we’ve been together. Because at heart, you aren’t a killer. You aren’t the bad guy.” That was what made him different from Maxwell.
“What am I?”
“A protector.” That was why he’d fought so hard for her on the street. Why, when the SUV exploded behind them, he’d tried to shield both her and Victor.
Drake wasn’t a deadly threat. He was a hero, the man just didn’t realize it.
She did.
Drake’s expression tightened. “Tell that to the dead I’ve left in my wake.”
Her gaze didn’t drop. “You won’t scare me. No matter what you say or what you do, because I know the real you.”
He laughed. “You’ve been with me for a few days. How can you possibly know anything but what’s on the surface?”
Jasmine swallowed. “You’ve known me for less than forty-eight hours, and you shot a man for me today.”
They stared at each other. “What would you say,” Drake asked her, softly, “if I told you that I would have killed for you? If I hadn’t been able to get that jerk to free you…if he’d tossed you in that van…”
She gave a sharp, negative shake of her head. “I don’t want you to kill for me. I don’t want anyone to do that.” She edged closer to him. “I want to get the hell I’ve brought out of your life, and I just want you—I want you to be happy.”
He gazed down at her. “This war isn’t on you. Maxwell and I were set to battle long before you came into the Arrow.”
Because of Anna Jean. The mysterious Anna Jean. A lover Drake had confessed to killing.
Goosebumps rose onto her arms.
She knew how Maxwell thought. He was old school, an eye-for-an-eye type.
There is no escape.
A low, pealing ring filled the air then. The same peal that had sounded right before the cops arrived on their last terrible visit. Drake turned at the sound, heading back into the main living area. Jasmine followed, grabbing for his arm. “Drake, no, it’s probably the cops!” And without Victor close-by, she did not want to deal with them again.
“Cops wouldn’t have gotten past my security—only a very select few could get to me now.”
Great. Wonderful. Not. He was almost at the door. Jasmine jumped in front of him. “Drake, I get that you seem confident about whoever might be on the other side—”
“I am confident, because I told them to get their asses down here.”
Wait, what?
He slipped around her. Took an instant to glance through the peephole—at least he checked that much—then Drake was opening the door.
“You made better time than I thought,” he said as he offered his hand to the first man in the doorway.
Jasmine inched back. Her guts were twisting into knots and she was so hoping that she was wrong about the identity of the men in Drake’s doorway.
She took another step back and realized she didn’t have on her shoes. They were still in Drake’s private elevator. She lifted a hand to her lips. They felt swollen—from Drake’s mouth. She touched her hair—oh, hell, yes, it no doubt looked as wild as it felt to her touch.
“Well, well…” A deep voice said, and Jasmine dropped her hand as she realized that the three men were now inside the apartment—and all gazing at her. “You must be Jasmine Bennett.” The man speaking was tall, with midnight black hair and startlingly bright blue eyes. He wore a suit cut perfectly to his broad shoulders, and the guy seemed to ooze both money…and danger.
Trace Weston. She recognized him instantly.
And if Trace was there…
Her gaze slid past Trace and Drake, and her stare locked on the third man. A man who wore jeans and a jacket, but still came off with a heavy air of power and affluence. His eyes were green, a shade that seemed less…cold…than Drake’s. His face was magazine perfect, his cheeks high, his nose slanting. He was about an inch shorter than Drake, but he was built along powerful, deadly lines.
She stared into his eyes, and realized she’d seen those eyes before.
“Jasmine?” Drake stepped forward, cutting off her direct line of sight with the man she knew to be Noah York.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.