Broken Songbird (Vicious Games #2)

13. Chapter 13

I hear one of them swear over my sawing breath as I bolt across the road and onto my street. Do I go to my building or keep running? Where would I even go? Can I actually outrun them until Creed gets to me? I shake the thought immediately.

I will outrun them.

I chant that over and over as I run toward my building, pushing my body faster and making sure I breathe. I don’t dare look back, but I can hear their quick footsteps behind me, which keep pushing me forward.

I veer sharply into the parking lot of my building, then something crashes into me from behind.

Not something, someone .

I lose my footing and careen into an SUV, losing grip on my phone as my head slams into the window.

The car alarm blares as pain blasts through my skull and temple, and I collapse to the asphalt. I fight the dizziness as I force my eyes open and blink rapidly to clear my vision.

Ignoring the blood pouring down my face and dripping onto the ground, I sweep my hands out, looking for my phone.

Glass rains over me, and then the car alarm stops abruptly. A conversation happens above me in a language I don’t know, then fingers wrap around my arm painfully and pull me from the ground. I shriek, fighting the hold, kicking out, and connect with what I’m assuming is a limb from the cursing.

The grip around my arm disappears and moves to fist in my hair. I cry out in pain, grabbing his wrist, trying to pull him off me.

“Stupid fucking bitch,” he sneers in my face. “This could have gone differently if you played whore.”

The guy from the club.

I blink my eyes open, blood clumping my lashes together to see his hazy sneer. I spit in his face.

He tosses me to the ground; that’s when I hear the roar of an engine.

Creed.

Acting on instinct, I roll under the SUV, ignoring my skin scraping on the asphalt. I screw my eyes shut.

Shouts and curses.

Screeching brakes.

Loud pops.

Thud. Thud.

Silence.

Shuddering breaths.

Heavy footsteps.

“Scar?”

That voice—low, deep, panicked.

“Scarlett,” it barks. “Come on, princess, answer me.”

Princess.

“Creed?” I croak out. I open my eyes to pipes close to my face and shut my eyes immediately. My chest squeezes painfully, my heart hammering. Trapped. I’m trapped.

“Scar,” he breathes out, relief in his tone. “Where are you?”

“H-here,” I say a little louder. “Here.”

Footsteps crunch on glass close by, then stop.

“You can come out, Scar,” Creed says, his voice clearer, closer. He must be crouching down and looking at me under the car, but I can’t open my eyes to see. I can’t move, frozen by the panic drowning me.

“I c-can’t.” Tears leak down my temples.

“They’re gone,” he reassures softly.

My body trembles uncontrollably. “I can’t m…move.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m trapped,” I whisper, my chest getting tighter. “I can’t… I can’t breathe.”

“Hey, no,” Creed says, and then I hear shuffling and sliding. “Listen, can you move your right arm?”

“I can’t,” I sob.

“Try for me, Scar. Lay your right hand flat on the ground.”

I do as instructed, feeling the rough surface of the ground below me.

“Good, Scar. Now, slide your hand out,” Creed instructs.

I move my hand, my whole body trembling.

“Good,” Creed praises. “A little further.”

My fingers creep out until they touch something warm. Calloused. Fingers.

My hand recoils, but the fingers grab me firmly and I let out a whimper.

“It’s me, Scar,” Creed reassures. “It’s me.”

“Creed,” I sob, and move my hand so I’m clinging to his fingers tighter. “I can’t—”

“You can ,” he says firmly, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Take a deep breath. Fill your lungs. Then release slowly.”

I do as instructed, and then he tells me to do it again. My heartbeat slows and panic loosens its steel grip.

“Now, I know this might be hard, but I’ve got you.” Creed’s grip on my hand tightens slightly. “I need you to shift toward me, Scar. Take it slow.”

I can do this. Taking a steadying breath, I inch my way to my right, toward Creed. His hand moves up my arm the closer I get to him until he’s cradling the back of my head.

“A little further,” Creed says softly as I keep moving, feeling the cool night air caressing more of my body. My fingers brush leather and hard muscle, and I grab a handful and drag myself out from under the car and into Creed’s arms.

“I’ve got you,” Creed repeats over and over as I bury my face in his chest and sob.

My cries finally calm, and I pull away. I’m curled up in Creed’s lap next to the car I was just under.

Creed’s hand angles my head up, my now-clear gaze meeting horrified honey-brown eyes. “Jesus, Scar. We need to get you to a doctor.”

“I’m f-fine.” My voice and my body tremble.

“You’re not fine . You’re covered in blood and shaking.”

“Adrenaline d-drop.” My teeth chatter. “Head wounds b-bleed a lot.”

Tires screech in the distance, followed by quick footsteps and my name shouted.

It’s Del.

I bury my face in Creed’s chest again. She can’t see me like this.

Creed turns his body away from the approaching steps. “She’s fine.”

“Let go of her,” Del demands.

I wrap my arms around his chest tighter.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

“Fuck off, Mechanic,” Del sneers. “There’s blood . Give her to me.”

“Delphine,” Enzo’s voice says. “She’s okay.”

“No, Enzo,” Del argues.

“You need to speak to Isaac when he gets here. Creed will take care of Scarlett.”

It’s silent for a moment, then she must relent, because Enzo and Creed have a low conversation about getting me to my apartment and then Creed moves under me. I’m manoeuvred so I’m tucked against his chest in his arms as he walks.

“My key is in my bag,” I croak out, pulling my face from his chest.

“I’ve got it,” Creed says as I hear the distinct beep from the key fob scanner.

I keep my eyes on Creed’s jaw as he steps into the elevator. Blood streaks across his stubbled jaw, over his neck tattoo and over his T-shirt. The elevator doors open, and Creed walks out into a quiet hall.

“You know where I live?” I ask as he stops.

My eyes flick to his. Such pretty eyes.

“Enzo told me.”

Right. They just had this conversation.

I drop my gaze and tap Creed’s chest to be let down. He keeps a steadying hand on my waist as I take my keys from him and turn, unlocking my door.

Creed locks the door once we’re inside, and I head for the bathroom on shaky legs. I turn the light on and wince, my head throbbing. I see my reflection. Fucking Christ.

Dried blood and my make-up streak down my face and neck. My hair is tinged reddish brown and matted. Dirt and blood cover my jacket and top—both are going straight into a fire.

I step up to the vanity and lean closer to the mirror as Creed appears in the doorway behind me. I inspect my head, finding the slowly oozing wound on my forehead, and wince at the pain as my hair moves around the part of the gash that’s in my hairline.

“You need to see a doctor,” Creed says again. “Maybe your dad?”

“Definitely not my dad,” I say, still inspecting the wound. “It’s not deep, and smaller than all this blood suggests. I can treat it here.”

“What if you have a concussion?”

“I didn’t lose consciousness, or vomit, and have no memory loss. But I won’t be sleeping for the next twelve hours, anyway.” I crouch down and pull out the first aid kit from the vanity cabinet and set it on top of the marble.

I lift my gaze to Creed. He’s still leaning against the door of the bathroom, watching me.

“Are they…dead?” I ask.

Creed folds his arms over his chest. “Yes.”

I open my mouth to say something, but the words fall away. What do you say when a man kills two people for you?

“Is it a problem?” Creed asks neutrally.

I shake my head and wince, closing my eyes to the throbbing ache in my skull.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.

“I will be,” I assure him. I open my eyes, looking at him through the mirror. “Thank you. For coming for me.”

He crosses to me and pulls me to face him. “You never have to thank me for that. You call, I’ll be there.” A soft smile graces those biteable, pierced lips. “Even when you avoid me for four months.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Apology accepted.”

I roll my eyes, a small smile lifting my lips. “Now, I have to shower.”

Creed’s smile deepens. “Need an assistant?”

“No.”

The jovial smile drops into a concerned frown. “Seriously, if you need help…”

“No, I’m okay, really.”

He doesn’t seem convinced.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked so you can come save me, which you won’t need to,” I compromise.

He finally dips his head in agreement, then I lead him to the living area and tell him to make himself comfortable, dip into my bedroom to collect clothes, then head back to the bathroom.

I don’t put the shower on as hot as I usually like it so that I don’t bleed more, and then pull a towel from the cupboard and place it on the vanity, peel off my ruined clothes and step under the shower spray. My muscles finally begin to loosen as I stand static for a few moments, dirt and caked blood sliding away from my body.

And then I cry.

What the actual fuck just happened? What did I do to make that man chase me, hunt me , like it was a sport? Why did he slam me into a car?

I slide down the tile wall and tuck my knees to my chest as heaving sobs rack my body. The bathroom door opens suddenly and someone steps into the steamy room.

“Scar, love,” Del says softly as she appears at the entrance to the shower. “I’m going to help you, okay?”

I nod softly, still crying.

She pulls out more towels from the linen cupboard then strips out of her clothes quickly, and steps into the shower.

She makes me shuffle out of the spray of the water as she collects products from the built-in shelf, and then sits opposite me. She has two clean washcloths, one of which she soaks, wrings out, and lathers up with my bar of unscented soap.

She starts with my legs, cleaning over the asphalt grazes and little nicks from rolling under the car, then does my arms. She hands me the soaped washcloth and instructs me to turn around as she wets the other one.

I wash my torso, chest and neck, as she does my back and collects all my hair.

“Shampoo on the ends,” I whisper. “The soap on my scalp.”

I clean my face, avoiding my forehead, then Del and I work together to wash my hair three times to get all the blood and grime out. She uses gentle touches as she cleans the hair around the wound, and I ignore the sting from the soap.

Del applies conditioner to the length of my hair, completely avoiding my roots, and lets me sit with it while she stands and washes her own hair and body quickly. She helps me stand, rinses out the conditioner, then turns off the water.

Del gets out first, wraps herself in a towel, then helps me out of the shower and wraps me in another.

“Does your head need stitches?” she asks as she wipes my mirror with a hand towel.

“No, just a steri-strip or two for my forehead,” I say, stepping up to the first aid kit and looking for what I need. “I’d prefer dermal adhesive, but I’ll do with what I’ve got.”

“Your dad—”

“Will have an actual heart attack if he saw me like this,” I point out as I put on gloves from the kit.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Del says, watching me. “You’re going to bruise up pretty bad.”

Del gently pulls my hair out of the way and secures it in a loose ponytail as I open up some fresh gauze and find the steri-strips. Del dresses while I pat the whole wound dry with the gauze, apply the strips over the part on my forehead, leaving the tail in my hairline as is, and then discard the used items and pack away the first aid kit.

I change quickly into sweatpants, a loose T-shirt and a zip-up hooded sweatshirt, then Del and I work together to untangle my wet hair without pulling on the wound and dry most of the length.

Del collects the wet towels, and I stop her at the door of the bathroom before we exit.

“I love you,” I say.

Her face softens, and she kisses my cheek. “I love you, too.”