He ignores me, taking another step. “You won’t shoot me. You’re the preacher’s daughter. Good little Saintlyn who helps at the community center. Not a killer.”
“I’m not that girl anymore.” The words come out raw, honest. “Your family made sure of that.”
“My family?” He laughs. “I ain’t no Bishop, sweetheart. Just work for them. Same as you now, I guess. Though your position seems a lot more . . . horizontal.”
He lunges suddenly, grabbing for the barrel. I stumble back, finger slipping to the trigger, but I don’t pull it, not yet. We struggle, his hands trying to pry the weapon from mine. He’s stronger, and I feel the shotgun slipping from my grasp.
“Just—give it—here,” he grunts.
In the struggle, my back hits the wall, making my hip connect with a low table, and pain lances through my brand. I gasp,my grip loosening. Wayne seizes the advantage, wrenching the shotgun toward himself.
The front door crashes open, and a blur of motion slams into Wayne, driving him away from me. Calder. His fist connects with Wayne’s jaw with a sickening crack.
“Calder!” I cry out, clutching the shotgun again now that he’s not trying to wrench it away.
He doesn’t look at me, his focus entirely on Wayne. Something is terrifying in Calder’s eyes, a cold fury I’ve never seen before.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Calder says, voice deadly quiet.
Wayne spits blood. “Figured it was time we had a chat about your games. About how you’ve been making me look like a thief when we both know it’s you they should be keeping a closer eye on.”
“And you thought breaking into my house and threatening my wife was the way to have that conversation?” Calder’s voice is measured, but I can see the rage vibrating through him.
“Wasn’t threatening. Just talking.” Wayne’s eyes flick to me. “Until she tried to blow my head off.”
“She should have.” Calder steps forward. “Would’ve saved me the trouble.”
Wayne lunges with a wild punch that Calder dodges. Calder moves like water, ducking Wayne’s swings, landing precise blows. Wayne is strong, and a lucky punch catches Calder in the ribs. Ribs that are still healing, thanks to Roman’s lesson.
They crash into the coffee table, shattering it. Wayne gets his hands around Calder’s throat, forcing him back against the wall. Calder’s face is reddening, his hands clawing at Wayne’s grip. Suddenly, I’m not frozen anymore.
I raise the shotgun, aiming at Wayne’s back. “Let him go.”
Wayne doesn’t acknowledge me, just tightens his grip. I can hear Calder gasping for air.
“I said, let him go!”
Still nothing. Calder’s eyes meet mine over Wayne’s shoulder, something desperate in them. His face is turning purple.
He’s dying.
The realization hits me hard. For a flash of a second, I wonder if he dies here and now, if that would make things easier for me. This man, who took everything from me and somehow became everything to me, is dying in front of my eyes. No. Even if Wayne were to let me go, which I doubt, I’d never be free of Roman.
I bring the butt of the gun up against his skull to send him to the side away from Calder, and then resettle it against my shoulder and pull the trigger. There’s not even a moment to think, to consider again.
The blast is deafening. The shotgun kicks against my shoulder. Wayne jerks, then crumples to the floor. Silence falls, broken only by Calder’s ragged breathing as he slumps against the wall, one hand at his throat. The smell of gunpowder and blood clings to the air.
I stand frozen, staring at Wayne’s body. At what I’ve done.
“Saint.” Calder’s voice is hoarse. “Saint, look at me.”
I tear my eyes away, finding Calder’s ice-blue gaze. He moves toward me slowly, hands raised like I’m a frightened animal.
“Give me the gun, sweetheart.”
I don’t resist as he gently takes it and sets it aside. My body is shaking, the reality of what just happened crashing over me.
“I killed him.” The words come out hollow. “I killed a man.”
