Jackson roared and fired again.
20
Dorian
Ronan’s hand shot out, grabbing the front of Lane’s shirt and yanking him sideways, hard enough that Lane stumbled into me. The motion pulled Lane clean out of the bullet’s path, but brought Ro into it.
I saw it happen in a blink—fabric tearing, a sharp jerk of his shoulder, and a thin line of red appearing along his sleeve.
And that was it.
There was no shout, no wince of pain.
Nothing.
Ro didn’t even look at the injury. His gun was already up. He fired two shots back-to-back like they were one motion instead of two.
The first hit Jackson’s hand.
The impact tore through his grip, and I saw—actually saw—his fingers explode apart as the gun was ripped from his hold, clattering uselessly across the floor.
Jackson screamed.
The second shot came barely a fraction of a second later, straight into his knee.
The sound that followed was worse than the gunshot. There was a wet, cracking collapse as his leg gave out under him, dropping him hard to the ground.
Jackson curled in on himself, wailing, clutching what was left of his hand, with his leg twisted wrong beneath him.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t think I could.
Because it had happened so fast that my brain hadn’t caught up yet.
Ro stepped forward without a sound, kicking the fallen gun further out of reach, then grabbed Jackson by the back of the shirt and forced him flat onto his stomach. Jackson tried to fight—tried to twist, to push up—but it was useless.
Jackson choked on a sob, the sound breaking into something raw and animal as Ro wrenched his arms behind his back and secured them with zip ties.
I realized, distantly, that I was staring.
Lane was too.
He stood next to me, completely still for once, eyes wide in a way I’d never seen on him before.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
Yeah.
That felt about right.
Ro then stretched his arm out like he was working out a strained muscle rather than a bullet wound. Blood was starting to soak through his sleeve.
The blood seemed to snap Lane out of whatever stupor he’d been in. “Oh my god, Ro,” he said, stepping forward quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I should’ve—”
Ro cut him off with a look. “It’s fine.”
Lane shook his head immediately, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch, where to help. “No, it’s not, you got shot because of me—”
