She’s still crouched behind the island, one hand pressed over the tourniquet, her face pale as bone. There’s blood on her shirt. On the floor. Onme.
The decision makes itself.
I lower my gun and go back to her. “He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“He got away.”
The words taste like failure. Like ash. I should have been faster. Should have anticipated this. Should have put a bullet in his skull the second we walked through that door.
I take her uninjured arm and pull her to her feet. “Come on, Sunshine. We need to get you out of here.”
We don’t make it out of the kitchen before the cops swarm in. One of the neighbors must have called 911.
They cuff me immediately.
I don’t fight it. Just set my gun on the counter, lift my hands, and let some asshole with coffee breath shove me face-first into thewall. The metal bites into my wrists, cold and tight, and I focus on keeping my breathing even.
Another officer guides Sierra toward the living room, already radioing for paramedics.
I can hear Sierra talking, her voice rising in pitch as she tries to explain. But no one’s listening. There’s a hysterical neighbor in the hallway, wailing about gunshots, and the cops are too busy securing the scene to give a shit about what actually happened.
Then I spot Officer Lopez. Five years on the force, three years on our payroll. I catch his eye and jerk my head.
He wanders over and leans in close.
“Get them to actually listen to her,” I mutter. “And call Dario. Tell him what happened.”
Lopez nods and moves off.
The next two hours are a pain in the ass.
They separate us for questioning, which pisses me off more than the cuffs or the condescending cop eyeing me like I’m a rabid dog. I can hear Sierra in the living room, her voice strained as she talks to the paramedics, and every second I can’t see her feels like a knife twisting between my ribs.
My hands have dried tacky with her blood. I keep catching the smell of copper and iron every time I move.
I give my statement. Licensed to carry. Home invasion. Self-defense. All of it true, for once, which makes the whole thing almost funny.
The cop interviewing me eyes me like I’m a monster. I know what he sees. A big, scary-looking guy covered in tattoos andradiating pissed-off energy. He sees a criminal. He’s not wrong. I’ve got a few things on my record to prove it. But the Andrettis have a hell of a lawyer on payroll and a few judges in their pockets, so I’ve never had to do hard time.
Regardless, I don’t give a fuck what he thinks of me. I’m not in the wrong here. My only regret is that Viktor is still breathing.
“Why did this man attack you?” the cop asks.
“He’s my fiancée’s ex. I’d say he’s a jealous fucker who can’t handle rejection.”
The cop takes a small step back. Almost makes me laugh. I’m intimidating on a good day, and this is not a good day.
The questions continue. I answer them, but I’m not really here. I’m in that kitchen, watching her sway on her feet. I’m tying that tourniquet, her blood hot against my palms. I’m watching Viktor disappear through that door while I stayed behind.
I’ve never experienced this before. This overwhelming need to protect, to possess, to destroy anyone who threatens her. The only thing that comes close is how I felt about my mom during my childhood, when both our lives were hell. But that was different. My mom was my caretaker.
Sierra is different. She needs me in a way that feels primal. I’ve taken responsibility for her. I’m her man.
It might be something we’re still pretending is fake, but I know better.
I’m hers. And I’ll protect her from harm, no matter what.
