But he's not alone.
Another shooter near the exit.
Third by the windows.
They've boxed us in, planned this, and Dalla's lying beneath me with her heart slamming against my chest and her breath coming in sharp gasps against my neck.
"Stay down," I growl in her ear. "Don't move. Don't fecking move."
I feel her nod.
A tiny motion, her fingers curl into my jacket, gripping tight.
The next thirty seconds are violent.
I move on instinct, on training, on years of being shaped into exactly this—a weapon that doesn't hesitate.
I take the second shooter with three rounds, then the third when he breaks cover to aim at us.
My shoulder screams.
I've been hit—grazed, probably, nothing serious—but I don't stop.
Can't stop.
Not until every threat is neutralized, not until she's safe.
When it's over, the silence is deafening.
Three men down.
Guests huddled against walls, crying, screaming into phones.
Security flooding in too late to matter.
And Dalla.
Still beneath me. Still breathing.
Her blue eyes wide and fixed on my face like I'm the only thing in the world.
"You're okay," I tell her, and I don't know if I'm asking or telling. "You're okay. Are you hurt? Dalla.Are you hurt?"
My hands are on her face before I realize I'm moving.
Checking for blood.
For injuries.
For anything wrong.
Her skin is so soft.
So warm.
She's shaking—or maybe I am—and I can't make myself let go.
"I'm okay," she whispers. "RJ. I'm okay."
