Xavier emerged from the elevator, the heavy brick wall sliding silently shut behind him to seal the subterranean corridor.
He strode down the dimly lit hallway toward the secure holding room, the muffled, agonizing screams of Eli echoing loudly off the concrete.
Stopping beside the door, Xavier glanced at the armed guard posted outside.
“Is the boss in there?” The guard gave a single, firm nod.
Xavier twisted the handle and pushed the door open.
The deafening sound of Eli’s shrieks filled the room, punctuated by the heavy, rhythmic crack of a leather whip.
Rowan stood over his trembling brother, his posture cold and unyielding as Eli, whose head was still covered, whimpered in agony on the floor.
Xavier stepped close and whispered urgently into Rowan’s ear.
Rowan froze.
His cold demeanor instantly shattered, replaced by a surge of deep worry.
Without a word, he shoved the whip into Xavier’s hands and turned toward the guard holding the tablet.
Rowan snatched the device and stared at the screen.
On the live feed, Esme was repeatedly striking her head against her bedroom door in a disoriented, desperate state.
Rowan’s brow furrowed into a sharp, line, casting a lethal glare at the guard for failing to report the behavior immediately.
The guard lowered his gaze, unable to meet his eyes.
Rowan turned on his heel, threw open the heavy door, and stepped back out into the hallway.
Behind him, Eli raised his head from the floor, crying out, “What is going on?!
Please, just let me go!” Xavier cracked the whip down once more, drowning out Eli’s desperate pleas with another shrill scream, while Rowan pulled the door shut and entered the elevator.
Emerging into the cool night air outside the club, Rowan bypassed the waiting valet, walked straight to the driver’s side of his car, and slid behind the wheel.
The engine roared to life, and the sedan shot out into the street, tearing through the city at breakneck speed.
Within minutes, the heavy iron gates of the Carven estate parted.
Rowan slammed the car into park in the courtyard, threw his door open, walked towards the front door and opened it as he took the grand staircase three steps at a time.
He reached Esme’s room and pushed the door open.
Esme was staggering near the wall, swaying on her feet as if heavily intoxicated.
Her eyes were unfocused, her skin flushed and feverish.
Rowan closed the distance between them instantly.
She blinked up at him, her vision swimming, and slurred, “Rowan…
you bastard.” He reached out, his gaze falling on her hand, and stopped cold.
Her wrist was severely discolored, wrapped in a massive, deep purple bruise which was swollen stiff.
Rowan’s eyes widened in genuine shock.
“This is bad…” He looked up at her face, his voice tight with urgency.
“I need to get you to the hospital right now, Esme.” She jerked her arm away from his touch, staggering backward.
“Don’t touch me,” she muttered thickly.
Rowan tilted his head, recognizing the erratic behavior.
“This is a reaction…
the side effects are disorienting you.” He leaned down to gently lift her into his arms, but she slithered out of reach with a stubborn, uncoordinated movement.
“No,” she insisted, shaking her head as her vision blurred.
“You are not taking me anywhere.” She stumbled toward the large bed, her feet catching on the rug, before collapsing onto the edge of the mattress.
Rowan watched her, his expression softening despite the urgency of the moment.
“There is no time for your stubbornness, Esme.” Esme sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders dropping as a wave of deep sadness washed over her disoriented mind.
Tears pooled in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks as she looked up at him.
“Why did you let Eli come here?” her voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.
“He’s a bastard…” Rowan walked over and dropped to one knee beside her legs, bringing himself down to her level.
The harsh edge in his voice completely dissolved, leaving only a quiet, grounded warmth.
“Yes,” he said gently, offering a faint, reassuring smile.
“He is an absolute bastard.” He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray tear from her cheek.
“But we have to get you looked at.
Look at your wrist…
it’s severely injured.” Esme slowly raised her arm, staring at the deep violet swelling as if seeing it for the first time.
Her eyes widened, and suddenly a breathless, bitter laugh escaped her lips.
“Oh dear…
it’s fucking purple.” She giggled softly, the disorienting haze warping her perception.
“Look at it, Rowan!” She let out a raspy, mournful chuckle, resting her forehead against her uninjured arm.
“I yanked the IV line right out when I heard he was in the house…
And to think I actually felt pity for him.
To think I ever loved him.” Rowan’s jaw set firmly, a dark flicker passing through his eyes before he kept his tone carefully measured.
“Do you still love him?” Esme scoffed loudly, tossing her head back against the bedpost.
“What?!
Are you insane?
I hate him more than I hate you.” She paused, her blurred gaze drifting back to Rowan’s face, a soft, hazy smile touching her lips.
“I want to kill him…
and you, too.” The tension in Rowan’s shoulders visibly melted.
A tender, almost amused expression softened the sharp angles of his face.
“You can kill me all you want,” he murmured softly, “just as soon as you get better.” Esme beamed at him, her disoriented mind clinging to the words.
“Promise?” She clumsily extended her small pinky finger toward him.
Rowan looked down at her hand, then raised his own, wrapping his pinky gently around hers.
“Pinky promise,” he agreed quietly.
Esme stared at their joined hands, her smile growing soft and bittersweet.
“You’re actually a good person, Rowan,” she said sluggishly, her words slipping together.
“You just…
you don’t know how to respect boundaries right.
If you had just come to me…
maybe two years after Eli and I broke up…
maybe I could have loved you.” Rowan stayed on his knee, his head slightly tilted, listening to her with absolute, unwavering attention.
Every trace of his formidable mob-boss persona had vanished, replaced by a quiet, undivided devotion.
“I’ve only ever wanted a normal life,” Esme whispered, looking past him toward the curtained windows.
“A normal marriage.
I hate the mafia…
My father made me hate all of it.
I just wanted to go on real vacations.
To walk down a street outside freely without constantly worrying about getting shot or hunted.” A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped Rowan’s chest, not mockingly, but filled with a deep, silent understanding of the peace he wished he could give her.
Esme blinked down at him, her disoriented mind momentarily losing the thread.
“Why are you here?” She glanced around the luxurious room, her brow furrowing slightly.
“Why am I here?” Rowan stood up smoothly, extending his hands toward her with deliberate gentleness.
“I’m here to take care of you, Mrs.
Carven.
We’re going to the hospital.” Esme looked at his broad hands, then lifted both of her arms, offering her uninjured wrist forward.
“Drag me then,” she said playfully, her voice laced with lighthearted defiance.
Rowan sighed, a soft smile breaking across his features.
“I can’t drag you, Esme.
Your wrist…” “Well, drag me lightly then!” she insisted with a playful pout.
He reached down, taking her good hand with extreme care.
But the moment his fingers closed around hers, Esme gave a sudden, playful yank.
Caught off balance in his bent posture, Rowan lost his footing.
He fell forward onto the mattress, his broad frame coming to rest directly over hers.
He caught his weight on his forearms, hovering mere inches above her face to protect her injured arm from taking any impact.
The breath caught in Esme’s throat as she looked up into his dark, intense eyes.
The playful haze briefly settled, replaced by the sudden, overwhelming warmth of his proximity.
Rowan looked down at her, his pulse racing, while Esme broke into a soft, genuine smile, her breath mingling with his in the quiet room.
my baby lovebirds are growing, heheeee.
But Rowan better not do anything silly, or else!