He nods. “The shooter was after the bride or groom. Or both.”
The chaos inside subsides. Yelling guests have calmed now that there are no more bullets flying. Shattered glass crunches under expensive shoes as a swarm of armed men in dark suits move through the ballroom, scanning for threats.
Our combined security teams call out in clipped voices, confirming each area is clear.
“Nothing on the east wing.”
“We have secured the south entrance.”
“No visual on the shooter.”
Over Roman’s shoulder, Kingston’s grip tightens around his gun, his gaze locked on our interaction with storm-dark eyes that hint of fury simmering in the depths.
The immediate danger may be contained, the mayhem corralled for now; however, the threat hasn’t disappeared.
It’s switched, radiating from Kingston himself like he’s daring Roman to cross the line so he can punish him for it.
He marches through the wall of men guarding me, shouldering the security team. His shadowed features are stern, but his energy crackles with authority.
Without hesitation, Roman moves between us, his loaded weapon ready.
Before I can react, Kingston wraps his big hand around my wrist and tugs me out from behind Roman.
“She’smy wife,” he says, his voice like gravel, deep and edged with a dangerous promise. “That means she’s under my protection from now on. Touch her again and I’ll throw you off the top of this hotel.”
Roman doesn’t move.
“Olivia Viacava ismine,” he continues. “Now fall back in line and do your job. Whoever aimed that bullet should be dead before sunrise.”
My pulse spikes at the sheer force of him, the way he looks right now—raw power in an expensive tux, broad shoulders tense, his dark hair a little mussed from the chaos. He’s lethal in his own right, and to my annoyance, devastatingly sexy.
But I refuse to be something heowns.
I yank my hand back, my jaw tightening.
Roman stands beside me, tense and coiled, his hand hovering near his weapon. His eyes shift between me and Kingston, considering just how far he’s willing to go. How fast he’d move so this turns bloody.
I reach out and lay a hand on his forearm. The fabric of his jacket is pressed tight over solid muscle, warm and taut beneath my fingers.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling.
He nods, his muscles tense and his body too damn close.
Kingston’s grip on my wrist tightens, reminding me he’s still there, stillwatching. And when I glance up, I find his gaze fixed on where my fingers stillrest against Roman’s arm.
The look he offers Roman is pure, quiet violence.
Roman holds Kingston’s stare long enough to make it clear that whatever line exists between them, it’s razor-thin and fraying fast.
Then, with a final glance at me, Roman turns and starts barking commands to his team, his voice clipped and authoritative as he fans them out across the terrace. The O’Callaghan men respond to him like he’s the only voice that matters.
His hand briefly touches the comm in his ear and he scans the perimeter, his green gaze predatory.
Roman Keane is the best there is. And that’s the only reason my father forgave him for screwing his daughter and made him head of his personal security team instead of putting a bullet in his skull.
“As you can see, I have my own security, Kingston.” I emphasize his name like it’s venom. “I don’t need you taking over.”
His jaw ticks, but his eyes gleam, arrogance playing on his lips like he enjoys the fight. “Too late. I’ve already said my vows and taken over.”
