Micah buried his face in Clyde's chest, his cheek pressing against the man's shirt, catching the faint sandalwood scent. His ribs screamed like hell with every step Clyde took, but he gritted his teeth, forcing down the groans threatening to break free.
Clyde glanced down, eyes catching the bruise spreading across Micah's cheekbone. The sight made something inside of him snap. His gaze darkened, lips pressed into a hard line. Whoever had laid hands on him, whoever had dared, would pay. He would find that bastard and return it tenfold.
Neither of them spoke. Even Darcy, trailing behind them, kept his silence.
They reached the car. Darcy slowed. Ahead, Emile stood near the curb, waiting. His posture was stiff, hands buried in his pockets, eyes darting nervously between the building and the approaching figures.
The moment he saw Micah cradled in Clyde's arms, he gasped.
"Hold it," Clyde barked before Emile could open his mouth.
Emile flinched visibly.
