"—perfect dress for our wedding. You look so beautiful. Just like I imagined."
I counted down with my fingers where the brothers could see. Three. Two. One.
I kicked the door in with enough force to tear it off its hinges.
The scene inside froze my soul. Stephy in a white dress, duct tape on her wrists and ankles, mascara streaking her face. And him, Marcus Fitzgerald, thin and manic-eyed, jerking her upright with a knife pressed to her throat.
Stephy’s eyes went wide when she saw me, fresh tears streaking her cheeks.
"Back off!" he screamed, the knife trembling against her skin. "She's mine! We're getting married! You're interrupting?—"
"Let her go." My voice came out deadly calm, the voice that had talked down drug dealers and killers. "This doesn't have to end badly."
"You don't understand! She loves me! Her songs—they're all for me!" The knife pressed harder, and I saw a bead of blood appear on Stephy's throat.
Her eyes found mine—wide, terrified, but also trusting. Believing I'd save her. Knowing I would.
"Marcus," I said, using his name, making it personal. "I know you love her. I know you don't want to hurt her."
"I would never—" He jerked, agitated, and the knife sliced a shallow line across her neck. Stephy flinched, a muffled scream behind the duct tape, and blood trickled down to stain the white dress.
The world went red. But not rage-red. Precision-red. The red of absolute clarity. I moved on pure muscle memory, fast as light.
One breath to steady. One adjustment of angle. One squeeze of the trigger.
The shot was perfect—through his right eye, out the back of his skull. No chance for reflexive movement, no dying slash of the knife. He dropped like his strings had been cut.
Stephy collapsed as his grip released, and I lunged forward, catching her before she hit the filthy floor. I pulled her into mychest, one hand cradling her head, the other checking the wound on her throat—shallow, thank God, just a surface cut.
"I've got you," I murmured into her hair, using my knife to cut the tape on her wrists and ankles, then gently peeling it from her mouth. "You're safe now, Stephy. I swear it. You're safe."
She gasped when the tape came free, then broke into body-shaking sobs, her fingers knotting in my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear.
Wyatt, Clay, and Hunter swept into the room, weapons drawn, checking corners, making sure Fitzgerald was alone, was truly dead. Then they positioned themselves like a wall—Clay at the door, Hunter at the window, Wyatt watching the hallway. Creating a fortress around us with their bodies.
"Medics are five minutes out," Wyatt said quietly.
I tried to check Stephy for other injuries, but she wouldn't let go, wouldn't release her death grip on my shirt. She was shaking so violently, I was afraid she'd hurt herself.
"Sweetheart, I need to?—"
"I’m ok." Her voice was broken, raw from screaming, barely a whisper. "I knew you’d come.”
“Always," I promised, lifting her into my arms, that fucking white dress stained with blood and dirt and horror. "Always and forever."
As I carried her out of that hell—her body shaking, her breath hitching against my throat—my brothers closed in around us, forming a wall of protection. Clay ahead, Wyatt at my back, Hunter sweeping the sides with his rifle up. An honor guard, a warning, a promise.
Stephy clung to me with what little strength she had left, her fingers curled into the collar of my shirt like she was afraid I might disappear if she let go.
Her voice was shredded, barely sound, more breath than words, but she kept repeating it over and over, like a prayer or alifeline she refused to release: "I’m okay… I knew you’d come… I’m okay… I knew you’d come."
Every repetition cut me open.
Because sheshouldn’thave had to know that. Shouldn’t have had to trust that hard. Shouldn’t have been left vulnerable enough to need rescuing in the first place.
She trusted me.
And I hadn’t been here.
