“The second I move my gun from her, your guys are on me. You think I don’t know there’s about fifty ex-Special Forces waiting in the bushes?” Deano sneers.
Undeterred, Connor takes another step toward him. “Come on, man,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost conversational. “We both know taking me down would be a lot more satisfying than hurting these girls.”
“Get back,” Deano snaps, eyes wild.
But Connor doesn’t even flinch. With a calm that borders on surreal, he positions himself between us and the barrel of Deano’s gun, his broad shoulders forming a shield.
“No, Connor,” I cry, my heart breaking.
Deano’s going to do it. It’s written all over him—the determination in his eyes, the grim set of his jaw. He’s going to pull the trigger, and Connor is going to die.
In a desperate bid, I reach out to grab Connor’s shoulder, trying to yank him back, to shield him from his own heroic recklessness. But he’s immovable, pushing me safely behind him.
“Please, Deano, don’t do this,” I plead.
But he isn’t listening. He’s not seeing me, not seeing Grace. All he sees now is Connor, the target of his wrath.
And then, in a moment that feels like it lasts forever, in a split second that I know I’ll never forget as long as I live, I hear it. The sound of a gunshot.
The noise is so loud, it’s like it’s gone off inside my head.
I can’t help it, I scream. A scream of sheer unadulterated terror.
But the bullet doesn’t find its mark. It doesn’t bury itself in Connor’s heart.
Instead, it’s Deano who drops, who falls to the ground.
“There’s a sniper on a rooftop,” Connor murmurs, like it’s no big deal, like he hasn’t just gone up against a gunman.
And Deano was right, men do rush in from the bushes, like some kind of secret agent squad.
Connor turns to face us, and I lose it. I let out this huge, ugly wail.
I don’t know if it’s sadness or happiness, relief or hysteria, or maybe all the emotions mixing together in a blender of feels to form the ultimate wail.
And then Grace starts in too, and together we’re like a fucking chorus of dying cats, just yowling and sobbing and generally making a scene.
Connor pulls us both in, wrapping us up in his arms. And even in the middle of this shit-show, I can’t help but notice how good he smells.
“You c-c-came,” I stammer. “Why is Deano . . . I-I-don’t understand.”
“Shush,” Connor murmurs, his hand stroking my hair in a way that’s so soft it nearly sets me off again. “You’re both safe now. Deano got out of prison early. I just found out.”
He looks down at me, his eyes filled with so much emotion that it makes my knees go weak.
Seeing him here, after all these months apart, after everything that’s happened . . . it’s like a fucking miracle.
I can hardly believe it’s real, can hardly believe he’s here, holding me. Protecting me and Grace.
“Grace, can you give us a moment, please?” he says. “My guys will take care of you for a minute. We’re not going anywhere.”
“I think I just pooed a little,” Grace whimpers, her face pale as a ghost.
Connor lets out this little chuckle, which is so bizarre considering we were just staring down the barrel of a gun. “Hey, no worries. They’ve dealt with worse. As long as you’re okay, that’s all that matters.”
“Grace, I’m right here,” I say to her.
Grace nods, her legs wobbling as one of Connor’s security team leads her away, probably to hose her down or something.
