The wail of sirens announces the fire department and then the paramedics, a crew of two men and one woman. They’re trained to go to the person with the most dire injuries, so they move toward the unconscious man.
“No!” I shout. “My wife first.”
Afton sits on my lap, an oxygen mask over her face, her hands gripping my shirt. The paramedics check her quickly.
“No burns, plenty of smoke inhalation,” says one of the men, turning to me. I slap his hand away.
“I’m fine. I was in there for less than a minute. Go ahead and check-” I look down at Afton.
“Wyatt,” she supplies.
“Your old bodyguard. I knew it.”
The red mist is dancing closer.I’m going to tear his fucking head off. I’ll use his skull for a bowl.
“Yes,” she says, “but he didn’t kill me. He wasn’t going to. Please don’t hurt him.”
Taking in a deep breath of smoke-tainted air, I immediately cough. But I send the mist back, away from the forefront of my consciousness, ignoring its disappointed howl.
Not yet.
Michael crouches next to me, looking at me closely. “Are ye okay, then?”
I nod. My grin must look horrendous because he flinches slightly. “Aye. I’m… I’m under control. What happened with the drones and the Kelly Gang that we cannot seem to not kill?”
He slaps my shoulder with relief. “They’re taken care of. I’ll be damned,” he grins. “Ye did a reverse neutron bomb this time. Ye killed the building and left the people still standing. Let’s get ye the hell out of here.”
We’re just struggling to our feet when my father dashes over. The other half of his head is scorched, his hair is still smoking. At least the damage is symmetrical now.
Wrapping his arms around me and hauling me off my feet, he whispers, “I’m just gonna say it once, aye? You were reckless as feck, my boy. Impulsive. Foolish. Downright suicidal.”
He steps back, his grin bright on his soot-covered face. “I knew ye had it in ye.”
“Take that back,” I hiss, but he slaps my back and walks away, laughing loudly.
Chapter Forty-Two
In which Mason’s Scottish is showing, as is all of Afton.
Afton…
Two weeks later…
“I don’t know how you lived through that,” Lucia is sobbing so loudly that I pull my phone away from my ear. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sweetie, it’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault except for our miserable excuse for a father.” I’d dreaded this phone call and was perfectly happy to wait until Mason and the others felt they’d adequately “handled” the situation.
“Yeah, Mom’s taste sucks, huh?” Lucia sounds so bitter, my sun-shiny little sister.
“I’m not so sure she had a choice in husbands, either.” I think about my mother’s overly bright smiles and desperate patter over the years. “How’s Nana doing?”
“She cried when Sam told us about Dad being shot. He never told her who did it, though.”
“That’s for the best,” I agree. “Though I suspect Nana might prefer a life where she’s not getting threatened all the time, too. How do you feel about it, Luce? He was a bastard, but he was still your dad.”
“You know what’s funny?” she says. “I have so many good memories, growing up here, about our family and the things we’ve done together.” Her voice is colder. “Then I realized thatDad wasn’t in any of those good memories. Not one. The hardest part of this is knowing that our dad was willing to sacrifice you to get what he wanted. Heck, he waseagerto sacrifice you.”
How do I make a sixteen-year-old feel better about the monster who sired us? There’s really nothing I can say, so I move to the next topic guaranteed to take her mind off death and unfortunate parentage.
