Something cracks open in my chest. Something I've kept locked away for so long, I forgot it existed.
"We need to move," I manage. "Now. Before more come."
I pull her up, keeping her pressed against my side, my body still shielding hers.
The wound in my shoulder burns, but I ignore it.
Pain is irrelevant. Only she matters.
Only getting her out.
I guide her toward the back exit, past the chaos, past the bodies, past Greer Mackenzie's white-faced fury and Doran's roar of rage as he fights through the crowd toward his wife.
Dalla doesn't speak. Doesn't cry.
Just keeps her hand fisted in my jacket, her body tucked against mine, trusting me to get her through this.
Trusting me.
Me.
The monster Dublin created.
The man with no conscience, no connections.
I'd burn this whole city to ash if anyone tried to take her from me.
The thought should terrify me.
It doesn't.
The safe room is in the basement of the townhouse—reinforced walls, separate air supply, comms equipment.
Standard for any Mackenzie property.
I get her inside and sweep the space before letting myself breathe.
She's sitting on the narrow bench against the wall, arms wrapped around herself, still in that cream dress that's now streaked with dust and debris.
Her hair's come loose from whatever style she had it in.
Her makeup is smudged beneath her eyes.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"You're bleeding."
Her voice cuts through the ringing in my ears.
I look down at my shoulder.
Right. The graze.
Blood's soaked through my jacket, spreading in a dark stain. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." She's on her feet, crossing to me, and before I can stop her, she's pushing the jacket off my shoulder to look at the wound. "You got shot."
"Grazed. There's a difference."
