“Fine,” he said. “You can have your moment.”
He lowered his voice. “But you’ll come back to me.”
My skin crawled.
Thomas turned and walked down the stairs like he owned the building.
His bodyguard followed.
The moment they were gone, my knees buckled.
Trigger turned fast, catching me.
His hands were gentle on my arms.
But his face…
His face was murder.
“You’re staying here,” he said, voice rough. “No windows. No lights. No leaving the tavern without one of us.”
I nodded, throat too tight to speak.
Trigger’s gaze swept my face like he was memorizing me.
Then he leaned closer, his voice dropping to something only I could hear.
“He put his hands on your throat.”
It wasn’t a question.
I started to shake again.
Trigger’s jaw tightened.
And then he said the words that made my eyes burn.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
7
Trigger
Sheriff Tate didn’t come with sirens.
He came with a quiet that made the whole building feel smaller.
I watched from the upstairs window as his truck rolled to a stop behind the tavern. He was still in his suit, having just left the church. No lights. No show. Just a man who’d survived enough to know that panic gets people killed.
He got out, shut the door softly, and looked up like he could feel me staring.
Then he saw Havoc posted near the back entrance.
Havoc gave him a single nod and opened the door.
Within seconds, boots hit the stairs.
Sheriff Tate stepped into the upstairs family room, his face hard in a way I’d never seen before. Not “small-town sheriff with a friendly wave” hard.
