They’re not here for blood. They aren’t swinging wildly. They fightclean: coordinated, no wasted movement, no panic. That’s the first clue these aren’t drunks.
One of them says, “Where is she?”
And I see red. Because there’s only oneshethey can mean.
Wren.
I jump into the fray, so outside of my nature, and drag one of the men across the threshold to throw him past the threshold out into the dirt. My gun comes back out to keep him there. Soon, the group of five are surrounded.
That they thought five would be enough to get their target is beyond me, because I’m not going to let any of them take her.
Saint stands amongst us all, blood seeping from his left eyebrow. His shirt is torn and dirty. His holster is empty, so are his hands. I doubt they caught him off guard, so he must have seen the same things I did.
Besides, he doesn’t need a weapon.
Not when he’s home.
Not with all of his men armed.
He looks like a dragon protecting his hoard, ready to breathe fire on the five men kneeling in front of him. “Let’s start with who you are.”
Hard-won authority slices into the quiet of the yard. The boss looks down on them, muscles taut, and absolute violence in his gaze.
“We’re bounty hunters,” the one I’ve got my Glock pointed at says. He spits blood into the dirt. “My badge is in my right pants pocket.”
Saint nods to Reaper, who steps in to check the man’s pocket, coming out with an official bag.
“This is my crew. We’re on a job.”
“Obviously,” quips Saint. “Who?”
I know what’s going to come out of his mouth before he says it.
“Wren Delaney.”
Saint’s nostrils flare, and his anger simmers. “WrenMaddox. Now. She’s my wife.”
“You didn’t say she’d be married,” one of the crew shoots to his boss, fear finally penetrating.
The head bounty hunter, Rodgers according to his badge, shakes his head. “Fuck.”
“Grant Dalton sent you.” Not a question. He’s the only one with the power, influence, and deep pockets to back up this kind of job.
“Yes,” Rodgers bites out.
“And you’re going to go back and tell him the job is defunct. You won’t be getting her. Anyone else who tries will die.” Saint rolls his shoulders back, the restraint clear in the way his neck cords with tension. “She’s mine.”
His claim makes me flinch inside. Even though this is exactly why he was the one to marry her. It hits a chord and not one I can fight against.
Another nod from Saint and the men and I back away, guns lowering only just as the bounty hunters get to their feet and retreat. They’re smart, not turning their backs to us as they make their way to two vehicles parked a quarter mile off. We can barely see them when they get in, but not one of us moves until they drive away.
The men start to file back inside to go back to drinking and smoking and hitting on the ladies.
Once I lower my gun completely, I turn to catch movement from the bar windows. Wren.
She does not know how to listen. I exchange a look with Saint, and he hovers at my side. Sin lingers, too, and once we’re alone, we share a beat of heavy silence.
“We need to discuss your wife.” The words grate on the way out. I know she’s his, but she feels like mine.
