Gunfire erupts in controlled bursts, measured and intentional. This isn’t a chaotic rescue. It’s choreography. A ruthless rhythm of shots and movement that tells me these men have done this before Many times.
The family.
Henry barely has time to lift his gun.
A shot cracks—his wrist explodes in red, bone and blood, the weapon clattering uselessly across the floor. His scream is animalistic, high-pitched and panicked, but it’s cut short when another bullet tears through his thigh. He collapses hard, the sound of his body hitting the concrete sickeningly final.
I flinch, a sob tearing loose before I can stop it.
Hands grab me—firm and steady—and I scream again, my body instinctively curling inward as pain flares though my shoulder.
“Easy,” a voice snaps, close and controlled. “She’s injured.”
I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
The soft timber. The hard edge.
My head jerks up.
Colter.
He’s already there, crouched in front of me like the rest of the world has ceased to exist. His movements are sharp and precise, eyes scanning the room once before locking onto mine with terrifying intensity.
His gaze hits me like a physical force.
Something dark and violent flashes across his face when he sees the blood soaking through my sleeve. I’d say it is pure, unrestrained rage, but it vanishes as quickly as it appears, replaced by something colder. Deadlier.
Behind him, Hudson Shaw moves through the room like a shadow given form. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t hesitate. His gun bucks twice and two men drop where they stand, their bodies crumpling before they even understand they’ve been hit. Pace is already covering the far side, barking clipped orders, directing men into positions like pieces on a board. They respond instantly. No questions. No delay.
And then?—
My father.
John Denver steps through the wreckage of the doorway, gun raised, posture rigid. His face is carved from stone, but his eyes burn as they fix on Laurel.
“Get away from her.” Everything still when he speaks.
His voice cuts through the gunfire, through the screaming, through the ringing in my ears like a blade.
Laurel lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, even as blood pool around her fallen men.
“Well,” she says, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her clothes as if this is a business meeting gone slightly awry. “you certainly didn’t waste any time.”
John doesn’t spare her another glance.
He crosses the room in three long strides and drops to his knees in front of me. His hands are gentle, but efficient as he grips my arm, fingers probing carefully around the wound. His jaw tightens when he sees the damage.
“She stabbed you,” he says quietly.
It isn’t a question.
I nod, my vision blurring.
Something inside him breaks.
He rises slowly, deliberately, like a predator unfolding itself. The air in the room shifts, thickens, every instinct screaming danger.
Laurel straightens, lifting her chin, certainty etched in every line of her face.
