Chapter 197
Chapter 197:
Behind him, the thug dragged himself backward across the carpet on his ruined leg and disappeared through the emergency exit stairwell. Crawford didn’t spare him a second glance.
He stripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it firmly around June’s shoulders, covering her completely — concealing her state from any passing eyes. The fabric carried the scent of cedarwood and cold air.
“Hold on,” Crawford said, his voice controlled but tight with urgency. “I’m taking you to the hospital p>
He lifted her against his chest.
In the depths of the drug’s grip, the warmth of strong arms and the press of another body triggered a blind, primal panic. She couldn’t distinguish friend from enemy. She began to fight — hands pushing, twisting, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Get away — don’t touch me p>
Crawford locked his arms around her, holding her firmly enough that she couldn’t hurt herself.
“It’s me,” he said, his voice low and hard against her ear. “It’s Crawford. Stop fighting. I’m getting you out p>
His name seemed to cut through the fog. Her struggling slowed. Then stopped.
Her head dropped heavily against his shoulder, and she lost consciousness entirely.
Crawford carried her to the private elevator, his eyes dark with a cold, absolute fury. Someone was going to answer for this.
𝖱𝗲𝘢d 𝘄і𝘁𝘩𝘰u𝘁 𝗂𝗻𝘁𝗲r𝘳u𝗉𝘁𝗶𝘰𝗇ѕ 𝗼𝗻
At nine o’clock, a freezing rain began to fall over Manhattan.
Crawford placed the unconscious June carefully into the passenger seat of his silver Aston Martin, buckled her in, and set the air conditioning to maximum cold to fight her fever. He dropped into the driver’s seat, pressed the accelerator to the floor, and the V12 engine roared as the car shot out of the underground garage and into the slick, chaotic city traffic.
At that same moment, Cole’s black Maybach was cutting down the opposite avenue. Julian Thorne occupied the passenger seat, nursing a hangover and complaining at length about his damaged reputation. Cole wasn’t listening. His mind was elsewhere entirely.
The heavy rain cut visibility to almost nothing. Both cars converged on an intersection where the traffic lights had short-circuited and gone dark.
Neither driver slowed.
The front right bumper of the Maybach slammed into the left side of the Aston Martin with a violent screech of tires on wet asphalt. The sickening crunch of tearing metal rang through the rain, and both cars skidded to a stop in the center of the intersection, blocking traffic in every direction.
Cole cursed and threw his door open, popping a black umbrella as he stepped out into the downpour to see which driver had just hit him.
Crawford shoved his damaged door open, furious. He didn’t have time for this. June needed a hospital.
The two men locked eyes through the rain. Both went still.
“Crawford,” Cole said, his jaw tightening.
His gaze moved instinctively past Crawford, through the rain-streaked windshield of the Aston Martin. The streetlights caught the passenger seat. A woman — wrapped in a large men’s suit jacket — face flushed dark red, shifting against the leather in obvious distress.
June.