Hair half-pinned, half-wild.
She was running like hell itself was on her heels.
“Rylie,” I breathed.
I hit the horn without thinking.
Her head snapped toward the sound. For half a second, her eyes locked on mine—and whatever she saw there made hersprint harder. She crossed the street without slowing and dove into my truck, slamming the door shut behind her.
Fear was written across her face so clearly it stole the air from my lungs.
I punched the gas and pulled in front of The Last Stand Tavern, tires crunching against gravel. I was out of the truck before it fully stopped, already moving to her side.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demanded, helping her down.
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
A shout ripped through the air behind us.
My body moved before my brain caught up.
I shoved Rylie behind me and turned toward the sound.
The church door slammed again.
Two men stepped out.
One wore a tailored suit that probably cost more than the tavern made in a week. The other looked like muscle—thick neck, shaved head, eyes scanning like he was already calculating angles and exits.
The suited man’s gaze landed on Rylie.
And the look on his face wasn’t concern.
It was possession.
“Rylie!” he called, forcing charm into his voice. “This isn’t funny.”
She flinched so hard it felt like someone had punchedme.
“I’ve got you,” I said quietly, pitching my voice low and steady. “You’re safe.”
Her fingers twisted into my shirt like she didn’t believe the word safe existed anymore.
Havoc burst out of the tavern, Saint right on his heels.
“What the hell—” Saint started, then took one look at Rylie’s bare feet and torn dress. His jaw hardened. “That’s not cold feet.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not.”
The suited man took a step closer.
Every instinct I had went razor sharp.
I leaned down, my mouth close to Rylie’s ear. “Is that him?”
She nodded. Barely.
