Rose’s POV
"Reagan?"
"Who the fuck else?" he hissed, sucking in a sharp breath.
"Oh my God! Reagan, are you okay?" I asked, panicked, as I flipped on the nearest switch.
"You’re bleeding!" I screamed. A trail of blood ran from his hair to the side of his face.
For a second, I couldn’t move. The badminton racquet slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a dull clatter. I hadn’t meant to hit that hard.
He made no expression of anger, but he wasn’t pleased either as he touched his hair, his fingers coming away slightly stained with blood.
That was what unsettled me the most. Anyone else would’ve shouted, cursed, or at least demanded an explanation. Instead, he looked at the blood on his fingertips with an almost unreadable expression, as though he was more curious than upset.
"Out of my way," he gritted, already bumping past me and walking off.
I would’ve normally fired back at him, but first of all, I did hit him, and secondly, something about the way he acted... it wasn’t normal.
Anger would’ve been the most common response, but he just looked at his fingers like it was another day.
That wasn’t usual, I thought, looking up at him as he walked calmly up the stairs with no sense of urgency.
Should I at least bring up a first aid kit?
I quickly shut that idea down.
He’s a grown man. He can stop the bleeding himself. Besides, it was his fault for creeping around in the dark and making little noises like some thief, scaring me. There’s a light switch at every corner. Surely he could find one.
That’s his problem, not mine.
Reagan’s POV
"Speak," my father commanded.
"I’m setting up a meeting with Atlas," I said, my knuckles tightening around the phone.
"That’s not what you’re there for."
"Our entire shipment was lost, and you expect me not to do anything?" I asked, my chest rising.
"I’ll handle Atlas."
"My gang’s problems are my gang’s to solve."
"Don’t forget who gave you your position."
"So did the person before you. Besides, your title as head will fall to me later," I retorted.
"Don’t be stubborn. What is at stake here is much more than some measly shipment. I’ll handle Atlas, and you give me what I need," he finalized, leaving no room for argument.
"You have more time, so you better have something substantial before I get back," his voice carried loudly through the speaker.
"I understand."
"Do you, though?" he roared.
"I gave an assignment. Find information on him. Ransack the house if you have to, but you go on a date?"
"I didn’t go on a date," I said, my jaw ticking.
"You think I’m blind?"
"Still having your men tailing me, Father?" I asked with a dry chuckle.
"Reagan, I gave you a job. Do it right," he said before ending the call.
Typical.
Got caught and immediately hangs up.
"Date?" I laughed, shaking my head slightly.
It’ll all pay off in the end.
You’ll see.
He always thought he knew best. Every decision, every order, every move I made somehow had to pass through him first. One day, that wouldn’t be the case anymore. One day I’d be making the calls, and nobody—not even him—would question them.
"Mmn." I groaned as the alcohol-soaked cloth met the wound.
Feeling oddly proud, I muttered, "Nice swing," as I stared at the red stain on the towel.
I need to make a call.
"Yes, sir?"
"Give me something, and it better be good."
"They were all dead by the time we arrived, sir. Only one was kept alive, his body littered with wounds and lacerations from obvious torture methods, with words carved from his leg to his back."
"What did it say?" My veins were already throbbing.
"’Just the beginning.’"
"Whoever carved those words hadn’t been in a hurry. They’d wanted the body to be found. They’d wanted someone to read the message. It wasn’t just some mindless torture. It was a challenge."
I thought for a second before answering.
"I see. And the man?"
"He died before we could attempt to save him."
"Inform the families of the deceased," I ordered.
"It’s been done," he answered.
"Good."
"Sir, if I may... the wound patterns and the carved writing all resemble the recent cases that have been springing up."
"A newbie trying to make a name for himself?" I asked, already feeling a headache coming.
"A newbie wouldn’t dare mess with top gangs without someone backing him up."
"Atlas?" I asked.
"It may be, sir, but the possibilities remain wide open."
"Move the meeting to an earlier date. My father is planning on interfering. I want answers from Atlas himself."
"Understood, sir."
That settles that, I breathed, massaging my temples, trying to suppress the anger bubbling inside me.
Killing my men and intercepting my shipment?
Whoever it was sure had balls.
I’ll give them that.
They won’t for long.
I need a drink.
"Shit." I winced as the cold air hit the wound, reminding me how I got it.
The corner of my lip upturned slightly at the thought of the culprit as something inside me eased a little.
So she’s not just a pretty face.
I almost laughed.
One swing and she managed to split my head open.
Not bad.
Good to know she can handle herself... to an extent.
Most people froze when they were scared.
She didn’t.
She swung first instead.
Reckless? Definitely.
But it also meant she wasn’t helpless... and that was strangely reassuring.
Why was I hit, though? My head seemed to clear a bit.
I let out a slow breath, hoping for five damn minutes of peace.
Knock. Knock.
Rose?
I walked to the door as another knock echoed.
She stood there barefoot, her hair cascading down her shoulders and back, a first aid box clutched in her hands.
"Can I come in?" she mumbled.
"I can’t hear you," I said, arching a brow.
"Just move," she grumbled, pushing me aside as she entered.
There she is.
"Sorry for hitting you."
Closing the door, I turned to face her.
"So why did you?"
"I thought you were a burglar or something," she replied with a sheepish laugh.
"Ah. I see."
"So you nearly knocked me unconscious..." I glanced at the first aid kit. "...then decide to play nurse?"
Her cheeks immediately warmed as she practically shoved the first aid kit at me.
"Here."
"And do what with it?"
"Brush your teeth with it. Treat your wound, genius," she breathed, exasperated.
I pointed to my head.
"No more bleeding."
"How’d you stop it?" she asked, half narrowing her eyes.
"Cheers," I replied, taking a sip of the gin.
It took her a moment to process it.
She snatched the bottle from my hand, turning it around to read the label as though she expected it to magically become antiseptic.
Her horrified expression almost made the headache worth it.
"You used that?!" she exclaimed.