Then Liam's voice, deadly calm, "Marcus. I know you love her. I know you don't want to hurt her."
One breath. One adjustment. One shot.
The gunshot had been deafening in the small room. The sound of the bullet meeting skin and bone had rang through my ears. Marcus's grip released instantly, and I was falling until Liam caught me, pulled me against him, his hands cutting the tape with swift efficiency.
"I've got you. You're safe now, Stephy. I swear it."
After that, chaos. What felt like the entire Texas law enforcement community poured into the room—FBI, Rangers, local cops, EMTs. Liam had carried me out through a sea of uniforms and flashing lights, never letting go, his arms iron bands of safety around me.
Now, in the hospital, I could sense him before I opened my eyes. His presence like a gravitational pull, that particular combination of leather and soap and safety that meant Liam.
"Lee?"
My voice scraped out of me like gravel, raw from screaming behind duct tape. The room was dim, lit only by the monitor glow and the faint spill of hallway light. He sat hunched in the visitor chair—elbows on his knees, head bowed, shoulders shaking with silent earthquakes he didn’t want anyone to see.
He looked up so fast it hurt to watch. And God… the expression on his face.
Like someone had reached inside his chest and ripped something vital out. Like he was both drowning and finally allowed to breathe. Relief, grief, guilt, love—every emotion he’d buried under ranger training crashing through him at once.
"Steph." My name broke apart in his throat, more breath than sound. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes clumped with tears he’d clearly been holding back for hours.
I lifted my hand—IV line tugging, wrist bruised and wrapped—and reached for him. My fingers brushed his, and he flinched like he didn’t think he deserved to be touched.
"Hey," I murmured, guiding his hand into mine. "I'm okay."
His breath hitched—sharp, broken, almost a sob. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'm so fucking sorry. I left you—I left you alone?—"
"Lee." I squeezed his hand, steady, grounding. "Look at me."
He resisted at first, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor like he was afraid of what he’d see in mine. But I kept my grip firm, pulling gently until his gaze finally lifted.
And when our eyes met—God. I saw something inside him shatter.
He looked devastated. Haunted. Like the fifteen-year-old boy who saw his parents’ bodies and decided it was his job to save everyone from that day on.
"Listen to me," I said, voice firm even though my ribs screamed. "I knew you'd come for me."
His face crumpled.
"Even when he shoved me in that trunk," I continued, my thumb sweeping across the back of his trembling hand, "even when he dragged me into that… nightmare room he built, even when I thought I might not make it—I held onto one truth: you would come. I just had to hold on long enough."
His tears fell—hot, silent—onto our joined hands.
"I failed you," he choked. "My only job—myonlyjob—was to keep you safe."
"You saved me.” I tugged him closer, ignoring the pain in my ribs. "You saved that little girl first… and then you saved me."
"But I wasn't there when he?—"
"Lee." I cupped his jaw with my free hand, forcing him to hear me. "You didn’t break me. You didn’t lose me. I’m here. I survived. I am stronger now because of you—because you love me, because you taught me how to fight, how to hold on."
He blinked, like he didn't understand how I could possibly believe that.
"How are you comforting me?" he whispered, voice barely audible. "You're the one who was taken."
"Because I’m not that broken girl from LA anymore." I stroked his cheek, feeling the rough stubble, the tension vibrating through him. "You helped me find myself again. You don’t get to carry this alone. I won't let you build our life on fear."
The sound he made as he folded into me—raw, helpless, almost childlike—ripped something inside me wide open. I shifted, ignoring the ache, making room for him on the narrow hospital bed.
