“I got grazed,” Ro corrected, voice steady. “Because he fired a gun, not because of you.”
Lane’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked down at the blood again, jaw tightening. “I should’ve moved faster,” he mumbled. “You’re hurt.”
Ro exhaled, quieter this time, then, after a second, he reached out and tapped Lane lightly under the chin, pushing his gaze back up. “I thought of the difference. You don’t normally have people shooting at you.”
Lane stilled, then smacked Ronan’s hand away with a pout. “Really?!”
Ro smiled at him, looking as if he were trying to soothe Lane even in a situation like this. “Hey, it’s just a little burn. I’m seriously okay.”
“But you’re bleeding…”
“It’s barely bleeding. If you’re worried, go search the bathrooms. Maybe he has some bandages or something.”
Lane nodded at Ronan, then rushed to the master bathroom in search of supplies, leaving Ro and me alone with the idiot writhing on the floor.
Ro glanced up at me briefly. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’m good.” I mentally shook off the stress of the last few minutes and took a centering breath, locking back in.
Ro turned his attention back to the man at his feet, all business again. “Get something to tie his legs,” he instructed.
I knelt beside him, grabbing the nearest corded blind tie I’d found on a shelf and handing it over. “Here,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
Ro didn’t acknowledge me beyond a single nod. He leaned over Jackson, looping the tie around his legs and cinching it tight. Jackson’s screams had turned into wheezing gasps, a mixture of shock and pain that filled the room like a physical weight.
Lane came back then, hands full of rolled-up towels and some bandages, moving fast. “Here, here—this will help,” he said, kneeling beside Ro and quickly pressing the towels to the wound on Ro’s arm. He hesitated, then muttered, almost to himself, “I can’t believe he just… just—”
“Focus,” Ro said calmly, one hand still keeping Jackson pinned while the other helped Lane secure the makeshift bandage.
Lane’s fingers trembled as he wrapped the towel around Ro’s arm, but he didn’t pull away. “I… I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking.
“I said it’s fine. There’s nothing to be sorry for, Lane. But would it help if you could do me a favor?”
“Yes! Whatever you want,” Lane promised, finally knotting the towel around Ro’s arm.
“Great. Then I’m assigning you to torture duty. Dorian, you can either assist Lane or find some cleaning supplies.”
“Aren’t we leaving him here to find?” I asked.
“Yeah. But there are a few drops of my blood by the door that need to be gone,” he answered.
Jackson tried to twist again, crying, but Ro adjusted his grip effortlessly, pinning him without a struggle.
“Stop moving,” Ro murmured, almost gently, like he wasn’t just restraining a man who had tried to kill him two seconds ago.
“Okay, I’ll find something,” I told him, giving the scene in the bedroom one last glance before jogging out, dodging the brother’s body in the hall, and locating the laundry room.
“Please have bleach,” I said under my breath, searching through the various detergents on the shelf above the washer and dryer.
I cursed as I read the label of the last bottle, finding a scent booster. That wouldn’t be very fucking helpful.
As I left the laundry room and entered the kitchen, determined to not let Ronan down, I heard a broken scream coming from the direction of the bedroom. It was very clearly Jackson’s, so I turned back to the task at hand, opening each cupboard and drawer.
My fingers rattled across jars, boxes, anything that might have a chemical strong enough to erase blood without leaving a trace. Nothing looked right—vinegar, baking soda, and dish soap were all too weak.
Another pained wail came from the bedroom, jagged and raw. Lane must’ve started.
Then I spotted it: a bottle of concentrated bleach tucked behind a stack of cleaning sprays. Relief surged.
