And God help them when they do.
—
By the timewe pull through the gates of the estate, my tears have dried, but the trembling hasn't stopped. My arm hurts. Everything hurts. And I can't stop seeing that moment—the crack of the gunshot, the hot sting of the bullet grazing my skin, the feeling of Atlas panicking underneath me, the tree bark exploding where the second bullet hit.
The car pulls up to the front entrance, and even before it stops, the door to the house opens, and Sean is coming out onto the front steps.
He looks like he's been through a war. His hair is disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see it from the car, and his eyes?—
His eyes are terrifying.
I've seen Sean cold. I've seen him violent. But I've never seen him look like this—like barely controlled rage given human form. He looks angrier than he did yesterday as he strides toward the SUV as the door opens, his eyes burning with fury.
"Out," he says to Eddie, his voice flat and deadly. "Now."
Eddie doesn't argue. Just slides out of the car and steps back.
Sean steps closer, and for a moment I think he's going to yell at me—tell me this is my fault for leaving the house, for not listening, for being foolish enough to think I could have one moment of normalcy.
But he doesn't.
His hands are gentle as he lifts me out of the car and sets me down to examine the bandage on my arm. His fingers are light against my skin, and I feel a shudder down my spine.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" His voice is still that flat, dangerous calm. "Tell me the truth."
"No. Just my arm. It's not bad. I think the bleeding stopped already… it just grazed?—"
"Someone shot you." Each word is precisely enunciated. "Someone shot my wife."
"Sean—"
"Inside." He doesn't let me finish. Just scoops me up like I weigh nothing, cradling me against his chest, and carries me toward the house.
12
SEAN
The call came while I was in the study, going through the Connelly business holdings for the umpteenth time and trying to make sense of all the numbers and legal jargon. I’m no idiot, but I didn’t go to fucking business school. I finished high school while I was training to be an assassin for the Council. I’m no CEO, that’s for sure.
I was only half paying attention when I picked up the phone, but the instant that Jack, my head of security, started speaking, everything else fell away.
“I got a call from Cole. Shots were fired out on the trail. Mrs. Flannery is safe but injured."
Everything stops, the world narrowing down to those words.Injured.My wife was injured. Someone shot at her.
Someone shot at Maeve.
I'm on my feet before I consciously decide to get up, the phone already at my ear. "How bad?"
“From what Cole said, just a graze. They’re on their way out to collect her and Eddie, then they’ll be headed back here.”’
My blood is pounding in my ears. I’m so angry it’s hard to think, a sort of raw fury that eclipses even what I felt yesterday,when that man came to the house demanding to have debts paid. “And the shooter?” I growl.
“Unsure. The focus was on getting Mrs. Flannery to safety. We’re sending more men out to sweep the area.”
My hand clenches around the phone so hard the case cracks. "Get her home. Now."
The moment I hang up, I immediately dial another number. "Flynn."
