Free Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant Page B

out.”
    I chuckle through my sore throat. “Yeah, and what was her name?”
    â€œCab’s on its way, Dix. Talk soon.”
    Mo hangs up before I can press him further. Obviously, I struck a nerve.
    When the cab arrives, I gratefully slide into the back seat. An overwhelming desire washes over me to curl into the fetal position and pull a blanket over my head. Heck, I may even suck my thumb.
    My neck and throat are throbbing to emphasize each pressure point of the Russian’s indelicate fingers; my shoulders and breastbone ache; my scalp stings from where he yanked my hair; and my wrists feel like they’ve been crushed between two boulders.
    Funny—but not in a ha-ha way—that I’ve managed to ignore the extent of my injuries until I finally feel safe.
    â€œYou heading back to the NOW offices?” asks the driver.
    I think about it but slowly shake off the suggestion.
    â€œDrop me at home, will you?” I say. “I could use a warm bath and a cuddle.”
    The driver raises an eyebrow in his rearview.
    â€œNot from you,” I add quickly. “I have a prince waiting at home.”
    The driver chuckles and weaves his way through traffic.

Ten
    Climbing out of the cab, I wave to King William sitting regally in the street-level front window of Mrs. Pennell’s apartment. He rewards me with a rare wink before I climb the short flight of stairs to the small lobby.
    Inside, I optimistically check my mailbox for any secret Valentines that may have been stuck in the post office sorting room for the last four months or so but come up empty—less than empty, if you add in the bills.
    The smell of Mr. French’s pipe tobacco (whiskey, cherry, and chocolate Cavendish) lingers in the air, and the familiar comfort of it brings an unexpected tear to my eye. The Russian has shaken me up more than I care to admit.
    I climb the stairs to the second floor, feeling every jar and bump in my muscles. A yellow note is stuck to the door of my apartment. It’s in Mrs. Pennell’s impeccable handwriting, and reads simply: Please come down and see me when you get in .
    I leave the note where it is, so I won’t forget, as Mrs. Pennell has become an important part of my handmade family. But just at this moment, I’m not in the mood for tea and gossip and anecdotes about King William’s adorable behavior.
    I ease into the apartment and shrug off my jacket as Prince Marmalade appears at the door to my bedroom. He yawns and stretches to make sure I know that I’ve interrupted his nap before padding over to wind his way around my feet, his loud purr practically vibrating the furniture in the room.
    Scooping him up in my arms, I press my forehead into his fluffy face. His purr rumbles even louder as he places a paw on either side of my face and proceeds to lick my nose.
    I give a half-laugh, half-exhale.
    â€œYou realize that’s not soothing, don’t you?” I ask. “You’re not a dog and your tongue is a pumice stone.”
    Prince ignores me and licks off another layer of skin.
    Laughing, I carry him into the bathroom, place him on the floor, and turn on the taps to fill the tub.
    Instantly, Prince leaps onto the side of the tub and strolls over to examine the gushing spout. As I undress and try not to wince, he looks over as if to ask what madness has overcome me that I would possibly want to immerse myself in water.
    I drop in a purple and yellow bath bomb that I found in a going-out-of-business sale from a store I had never visited before. Its magic ingredients promise to take away stress and calm a racing mind, which makes me wonder if I’m supposed to bathe in it or smoke it.
    Once the tub is full, I step in and slide down until the warm water laps at my chin. Blood pulses to my wounds, alerting me that nothing is broken or cut, just bruised and sore.
    Everyone was right: it would have been smarter to stay off the Red Swan’s radar. But if it