We walked the hallway in silence. Every step, the heels of my shoes rang out—solid, decisive, louder than hers. The front lobby was empty, the air cold with the echo of arguments and unsaid threats. Imogen’s hand was already on the doorknob when I reached past her and opened it myself, holding the glass wide.
The parking lot was empty except for a few staff cars and a battered Harley angled at the curb, chromed pipes still ticking with heat. Shivs was standing beside it, arms crossed, wearing a black T-shirt and the battered leather cut of the Royal Bastards. His hair was still damp from the shower, but his eyes were alert, following every move. When he saw me, something in his posture shifted—almost imperceptible, but there.
Imogen paused just past the threshold and fixed me with a final, venomous look. “You should really learn how the real world works,” she said and walked away, heels crunching the pea gravel with every step.
I let the door swing shut, then watched from the glass as she made her way to her car, a silver Audi parked three spots down. The morning light caught the curve of her jaw, and for a second, I envied her certainty, her ability to walk away from a disaster with nothing but a pen and a notebook. But I was built for endurance, not escape.
I caught Shivs watching me. He nodded, the way you might at a dog that’s just held its ground against a bigger animal.
The tension in my neck started to ease, and I let myself breathe for the first time since I’d entered the boardroom. I didn’t even see the car at first—a black Lincoln, low to the ground, windows tinted so dark it looked like an oil slick with tires. It rolled slowdown the drive, then idled at the curb across from the lot. My brain ticked over, cataloging the make, model, and the way the driver’s silhouette didn’t move.
I stepped outside, squinting against the glare, and heard the crunch of gravel behind me. Shivs had crossed the lot in three long strides, his hands loose at his sides, posture gone from “watchful” to “dangerous” in half a breath.
Imogen’s car started, headlights flaring, and she pulled out, turning left toward the main road. The Lincoln didn’t move. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a warning my father had drilled into me—never ignore the stillness before a storm.
“Get inside,” Shivs murmured, barely loud enough for me to hear.
“No,” I said, voice flat. “I’m not running.”
He didn’t argue, just stepped in front of me as the Lincoln crept forward. The window on the passenger side slid down, slow as a threat. I caught the glint of metal before my brain registered the rest—the length of the barrel, the gloved hand, the quick, efficient movement as the gun came up.
The first shot hit Shivs in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. I felt the air split beside my face, the sound less a bang than a pressure wave. The second shot was wider, cracking the pavement near my feet, sending chips of asphalt into my shin. I hit the deck, palms scraping the gravel, but my eyes stayed locked on the car, on the face behind the window—a pale oval, lips curled in concentration, eyes dead as river stones.
Shivs staggered, then surged forward, closing the gap in a blur. Another shot rang out, this one wild, and he reached the car as the Lincoln screeched into reverse, tires screaming. He slammed a fist into the trunk as it fishtailed away, leaving a spiderweb of dents and a smear of blood.
I scrambled to my feet, heart jackhammering, and ran to where he’d fallen. He was down on one knee, hand pressed tothe wound in his shoulder, blood leaking through his fingers in thick, syrupy streams.
“You idiot,” I said, dropping beside him.
He grinned, feral and proud, teeth red. “You always need a taste tester,” he said, and then he went down, hard, blood blooming out across the blacktop like spilled whiskey.
I pressed both hands over the wound, ignoring the heat and the stickiness, ignoring everything except the pulse under my palms. The Lincoln was gone, a distant smear of exhaust at the edge of the property, but I knew it would be back. The sharks had tasted blood.
I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t give Imogen or Marcus or anyone else the satisfaction. I just held Shivs, kneeling in the center of the lot, blood and bourbon history mixing under the Kentucky humidity.
I’d been fighting to keep Stillwater alive for months. But for the first time, I understood that I was also fighting for my own goddamn life.
I didn’t remember the trip from the lot to the Escalade. My brain deleted every second of it, except the sound of my name in his mouth—Caroline—and the way his body folded into the passenger seat, every muscle rigid against pain. His jaw was clenched, lips blue-white with the effort of not howling. But his eyes were alive, green as poison, and they never left the rearview as I gunned it out of there.
I was crying and didn’t know it until the salty streaks stung the corners of my mouth. The roads were empty, a rarity for Kentucky at noon, and the wet slap of the wipers kept time with my pulse. I kept my foot heavy on the gas, weaving through the backroads and doubling every turn, always watching for the Lincoln. Sometimes I saw it: a glint of black in the side mirror, a shadow slipping in and out of the treeline, never close enough to make out a license plate or a face.
Shivs kept his left hand clamped over the wound. With the right, he cranked the seat all the way back and propped his feet on the dash, knees splayed wide. It looked like a casual pose, but the way his breathing stuttered told the real story. I risked a glance at him—just a flicker, not enough to lose the road—and saw the blood had soaked through his cut, through the white T-shirt beneath, all the way down to the waistband of his jeans. The metallic stink filled the car, edged out only by the sharper tang of fear.
I took the curve at River Road fast, two wheels up on the shoulder, gravel hissing against the paint. “You still with me?” I said, but my voice sounded small, like someone else’s.
“Been through worse,” he grunted, which I chose to believe.
“You need a hospital—”
“Not for this.” He squeezed his shoulder, and blood bubbled between his fingers. “Get us home.”
“Home” meant Stillwater Mansion. I took the service entrance, punching in the code with a palm so sweaty it almost slipped on the buttons. The gate opened slow as molasses, but I floored it anyway, chewing up the gravel drive in a spray of dust. The house loomed at the end, big and empty, the kind of fortress that should have felt safe. Instead, it looked like a tomb.
I parked as close to the front steps as I could, threw the Escalade into park, and ran around to the passenger side. Shivs had already managed to push himself halfway out, one foot dragging along the ground. I hooked my arms under his and hauled him upright. He didn’t scream, not once, but his whole body vibrated with the effort.
Inside, every sense was on overload. The ticking of the hall clock, the squeak of old wood under our feet, the faint echo of the last time we’d been here, laughing and drinking and pretending nothing could touch us. I hit the door lock with my elbow, then double-checked it, then checked it again. The world outside washunting us, and all I could think was: they won’t get him. Not today.
We staggered up the stairs together, me half-carrying, him half-limping, neither willing to admit how scared we were. I aimed us for the master bath, because it was the only room with light strong enough to do any real damage control.
