Grasshopper’s black mohawk hung limp, floppy without gel. His blue eyes ringed with stress lines and bruises. He swallowed hard, refusing to answer my question.
“Well?” I prompted, holding my pounding skull. “What the fuck have you been doing to get her back?”
“Kill, back up.” Mo inched forward, wiping at the blood on his chin with the back of his hand.
Hopper never took his eyes off me. “We had to make sure you would survive. Been for a ride in an ambulance, helped dress your naked ass into a hospital gown, and stood by you while you were given scans and all that other medical bullshit to make sure you didn’t croak.”
Pointing at my bandaged head, he added, “You were out of it. Talking nonsense; wouldn’t wake up. The doctors thought the swelling might affect your speech. What were we supposed to do? Strap you to your bike and drag you with us to kill your own flesh and blood?”
My fists clenched. Blood dripped from my torn vein, splashing faster to the floor.
I couldn’t contemplate that the two brothers I trusted above anyone had let my woman get taken. And then not gone after her the second she was stolen.
It’s not their fault.
She’s yours and you failed her, asshole.
This is all on you.
“Fuck!” I groaned, tearing at the bandage around my head, trying to reach inside and turn off the incessant throbbing. Why was I so weak? I’d failed her again!
The room swam; my eyes worked like a faulty camera lens unable to focus. “You know what she means to me. You know how damn important she is.” Glaring at Grasshopper, I couldn’t bring myself to be grateful for his loyalty or attempts at keeping me alive. I didn’t want to be alive if Cleo was hurt.
I deserved to rot in hell for letting her be taken again.
“We did what—”
I slashed my hand, cutting off his sentence. “No, you did what you wanted to do. Not what I would’ve done. You know damn well I would’ve gone after your woman—regardless if you lived or fucking died.” Punching myself in the chest, I growled, “That’s what I wanted.”
“Kill, what were we supposed to do?” Hopper snapped. “We’d go to war for a girl who would hate us if she knew we did nothing while you bled to death. No point in that fight. No one wins.”
I couldn’t see his logic. It was flawed. Ridiculous. Cleo would understand if I died while my men rescued her. She would expect such a gallant act.
At least she would be safe.
I didn’t want to listen to fucking reason.
I want blood!
I didn’t care that my ass was hanging out the back of this paisley printed apron. I didn’t care that blood dripped from my hand, staining my bare feet and floor. And I definitely didn’t care about the viselike agony in my skull.
All I cared about was Cleo.
The nausea faded and I charged at Hopper. In a jumble of leather and hospital gown, I pinned him against the door, threading my fingers around his throat.
“Mr. Killian, unhand him!” the doctor shouted, swatting the back of my shoulders with the clipboard.
I ignored him like a lion would ignore a flea. He was nothing.
However, the rush of energy, coupled with moving reluctant legs made me squeeze Hopper’s throat more out of support rather than rage. My vision blacked out. I blinked, trying to see. “How long? How long was I out?”
Mo slapped a warning hand on my arm, tugging me away from Hopper. “Let him go, then we’ll tell you.”
My brain didn’t feel right. The sequences of numbers I relied on all my life, the ingrained knowledge and intelligence I’d taken for granted was muted … faded. Missing beneath a storm of pain and swelling. My temper was fucking insane.
Grasshopper didn’t try to remove my hand. Instead, he stood taller, breathing shallow as I slowly suffocated him.
“Two days.”
My world fell away.
I stood on the brink of suicidal mayhem.
Don’t snap. Do. Not. Snap.
My headache consumed me until I felt sure I would explode into bloody particles and devour the entire world with my fury.
Letting him go, I staggered backward. “Two days?”
Two fucking days where my father could’ve done anything to her.
Hopper shrank before my eyes. “Rubix took her about fifty hours ago.”
I shook. Fuck, I shook.
“Fifty hours?” I couldn’t do anything but repeat him. It was all I could do to force English through my lips and not revert to primitive grunts and growls.
I wasn’t human. I was an animal. An animal drooling at the thought of tearing my enemies limb from limb for what they’d done.
“Why was I out for so long?”
Mo answered, “They hit you a few times over the head with a baseball bat. The scans showed—”
“The PET, MRI, and CT scans all came back conclusive,” the doctor jumped in.
I’d completely forgotten he was still there.
“You have a hairline fracture in your skull and heavy swelling on the prefrontal cortex.”
I turned my attention to the man severely pissing me off. I didn’t want to hear what happened to me. Didn’t he get it? None of that fucking mattered!
“We kept you in an induced coma for thirty-six hours, hoping the swelling would recede to acceptable levels.”
“You. Did. What?” My heartbeat exploded. “You kept me fucking drugged when my woman is out there with men who won’t hesitate to rape and murder her?”