Literally.
The antique hinges tore from the frame with a violent screech as the door slammed against the wall, and standing in the smoky light was a figure I’d know anywhere.
Charlie.
He was soaked through, blood at his temple, jaw cut and clenched, gun drawn and pointed straight ahead like it had never left his hand.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
Alive.
He was alive.
And God help anyone who tried to stop him.
“Get away from her,” Charlie growled, voice like gravel and thunder.
Lefty froze.
Righty hesitated for half a heartbeat too long.
And that’s when Marshall walked in.
Smiling.
Smirking, actually.
“Oh, Charlie,” he said, voice lilting like he was greeting an old friend at a cocktail party. “You really have a gift for ruining the mood.”
Charlie didn’t blink.
He didn’t speak.
He just raised the gun?—
And shot him square in the face.
Blood and bone sprayed across the doorway. Marshall crumpled backward like a marionette with its strings cut.
The room fell deathly still.
Lefty let out a sharp breath and raised his hands.
Righty dropped his rifle.
Charlie didn’t even look at them. He crossed the room in three strides, fell to his knees in front of me, and grabbed my face like he couldn’t believe I was real.
Behind him, Quentin stepped into the room, weapon drawn, eyes scanning every corner like he’d been trained for this moment his entire life. His jaw was tight, his movements precise—silent backup with a soldier’s steadiness. He gave a sharp nod to Charlie, then moved to cover the guards, keeping them in check while Charlie stayed locked on me.
“Sloane,” Charlie said, voice breaking. “Jesus. Are you hurt?”
I was shaking, mouth open, but no sound came out.
“Did they touch you?” he asked, frantic now. “Did they?—?”
“No,” I choked. “Just scared. Just—” My voice cracked.
And then I was in his arms, sobbing into his shoulder, the scent of salt and blood and Charlie wrapping around me like a shield.
