God, he hadn’t even told her he loved her yet. How the hell was he going to live if anything happened to her?

“Tell me what to do,” Drew rasped.

Chase slammed him against the wall, the sides of his coat gripped in his hands again. “Fuck me over and I’ll kill you,” he raged in Drew’s face. “Do you hear me? If she’s hurt because you fucked up, I’ll take your damned face off.”

Drew glared back at him. “Save the fucking threats and tell me what the hell you need me to do.”

Chase jerked his backup weapon from his ankle holster and slapped it into Drew’s hand. “Stay ready. Nothing matters but keeping Kia alive. Do you understand me?”

Drew stared at the weapon, then back to Chase, and Chase saw understanding in Drew’s eyes.

“I might not have treated her right, Chase, but I still care for her.”

“She’s mine!”

Drew’s nod was jerky. “But she used to be mine, and I still care for her. I’ll protect her.”

Chase let it go at that. Kia had never belonged to Drew and the son of a bitch should have enough sense to know it. If he’d had a lick of sense when he was married to her he wouldn’t be in the position he was in now.

And Chase could only thank God that Stanton had been a royal fuckup during his marriage. Because Chase had ached for her like hell on fire for far too many years to keep doing without her.

He liked to think he would never interfere in a marriage, that he would have abided by the rules he signed on to with the club. But a part of him knew that, eventually, he would have had to leave or make that fatal move. Because even before her divorce, the need for her ate into him like a painful disease.

The elevator doors slid open. Weapon held close to his side, Chase went out first, followed by Khalid and Drew. Exchanging silent hand signals they edged along the wall, heading to the room Brockheim had taken.

Khalid held a hand up for them to stop as he plucked his phone from his pocket and flipped it open. His eyes narrowed as he listened. Turning back to Chase he mouthed Cameron and Ian coming up the stairs. He pointed to the stairwell.

Chase nodded. They weren’t far from the door. Khalid had the coded key to it, but slipping in and gaining the advantage would be the trick.

Harold was old; he was insane. He had to mess up somewhere.

Chase had to get the advantage. Kia’s life was hanging in the balance, and God knows, he didn’t think he could live without her now.

“Get on your phone and call your lover,” Harold spat out at her as she glared at him from the floor.

That one wasn’t going to happen. She’d felt the phone vibrate and knew Chase was calling. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow him to die for her.

“Call him yourself.”

Kia cried out in pain as Harold Brockheim reached down, grabbed her arm, and hauled her to her feet.

“Is this how you treated your daughter?” she cried out. “It’s no wonder she lost her mind.”

He threw her back, causing the corner of the dresser to dig into her hip and bringing a hard, anguished cry from her lips.

“Moriah was a good girl. I taught her to be a good girl.”

But Kia saw the guilt in his face.

“Did you hit her, too?” Her face ached to the point that talking was painful, but she refused to lift her hand to it. “Is that what made her so ill, Harold?”

“Stop it.” His hand was shaking wildly as he pointed the gun at her.

“Pull the trigger, you son of a bitch!” she screamed. “I won’t help you get Chase up here. Do you understand me? I won’t do it.”

She gripped the corner of the dresser, aware of the tears that fell from her eyes and of the pain that raced through her. She might die here with no one but this crazy son of a bitch to watch life leave her, but at least Chase would be alive. And Chase would figure it out. He would find out who killed her.

But she didn’t want to die. She sobbed. She didn’t want to leave Chase. She wanted his arms around her, she wanted him warming her, she wanted to make him love her.

She cried out again as Brockheim ripped the little purse she carried from the tiny snap that held it to the narrow strap of her dress. A device to keep from losing it while she danced.

She glared at him.

“The number isn’t on my cell,” she informed him. “He never even calls me, Brockheim.”

“Don’t worry, I know the little bastard’s number,” he growled. “Moriah had it. She knew it by heart.”

Bitch.

Kia watched as he dumped the contents of her purse on the bed and grabbed her cell phone. He smiled as he dialed the number.

“Moriah got her craziness from you,” she cried out. “Stay away from Chase!”

She was shaking. Chase would come running, and she knew it. He would come for her and he would end up dead.

She ran for Brockheim, ignoring the gun, gripping his arm as he stared at her in shock, as though he hadn’t expected it. She slapped the phone out of his hand as he struck her again.

“You stupid little bitch.” Her head bounced off the wall, and she cried out sharply as she felt the stitches tear. She felt the blood that began to run from the cut as she shook her head and tried to find her bearings.

She was sliding down the wall. Her nails scraped against it, scrambling to find a hold as her legs were going out from under her.

“Look what you made me do, you little whore. How are you supposed to talk to him like this?”

Oh fuck, that was a foot in her side. That was definitely her scream and her pain radiating through her body. But she didn’t know where that howl of rage came from.

They were standing outside the door when the first scream sounded. By the time Chase swiped the card, Kia’s scream was burning through his head. He jerked the door open and rushed into the room, tackling Harold Brockheim and throwing him away from Kia.

He’d been kicking her. Kicking her and kicking her. A red haze washed over his mind as his fist slammed into the older man’s face, knocking him across the room.

“Kia.” Chase dropped to his knees beside her.

She was huddled against the wall, blood on her face, her shoulder; her complexion was paper white, her eyes dazed and unfocused.

“No.” She coughed, a racking sound that tore through him.

“Get an ambulance!” he screamed as Cameron and Ian rushed through the door. “Get an ambulance. Ah God. Kia, baby.”

He was terrified to touch her. He’d seen Brockheim’s foot ramming into her side. God, how many times had he kicked her? How hard?

He turned and watched as Brockheim scrambled back from Khalid, the gun still in his hand. Khalid stood before him.

“I’ll kill you.” Brockheim was crying, his nose and mouth bleeding.

“Make the first shot count.” Khalid’s voice sounded demonic. “Because my shot will take off your head. And if mine doesn’t, theirs will.” He jerked his head to draw Brockheim’s attention away.

Chase, Cameron, Ian, and Drew watched him, guns drawn. And Chase wanted him dead. He wanted a piece of that bastard so fucking bad he couldn’t breathe.

But Kia. Sweet God, he moved in front of her as she reached out for him. Her face was tear-stained, sobs erupting from her chest as he gripped her hands with one of his and made certain she was shielded.

Brockheim was staring at them now in rage and panic. The gun was shaking in his hand, and Chase watched, cold, enraged, as Brockheim brought the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger.

At the explosion Kia flinched and cried out.

“Chase!” She reached for him, panic filling her. “No. Chase.”

He caught her against his chest.

“Oh God, don’t be shot,” she sobbed. “Please, God, Chase, don’t be shot.”

He pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her.

“I’m fine, baby.” He lowered his head over hers, and for the first time in too long, he felt tears fill his eyes. “I’m fine, baby. I have you.”