I move fast—faster than I ever have in my life.
The gun comes free with a sharp tug, the weight shocking in my hand. I bring it up between us, the barrel pressing hard against his chest, right over his heart.
Grant freezes.
Then he laughs. It’s loud, sudden, full of disbelief.
“What?” His brows lift, amused. “You think you’re going to shoot me?”
My arm shakes violently. The room feels too small, too tight, like the walls are closing in. My shoulder screams in protest, pain radiating down my arm, but I lock my elbow and keep the gun where it is.
“You won’t.” His voice drops, coaxing. “You’re too soft. Too kind. Pathetic.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. My hands are slick with sweat. My finger feels enormous on the trigger, clumsy and wrong.
“You don’t know me,” I say, forcing the words out through the tremor in my chest. “You never did.”
His palm settles over my wrist, not pushing the gun away—just resting there. Almost tender. “Go ahead, babe. Prove me wrong.”
Everything inside me locks up.
This is the moment. The one he’s always counted on. My hesitation. My mercy.
I think of Pixie. Of the men outside who gave me sanctuary without asking for anything in return. I think of the life growing inside me—small, fragile, already more loved than I ever was.
I draw a breath that burns all the way down.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
The words barely leave my mouth before the shot rings out.
The sound is deafening in the small room, a violent crack that echoes off the walls. Grant’s body jerks, his breath exploding out of him in a sharp, shocked sound.
His eyes go wide.
Not angry.
Not cruel.
Just…surprised.
And then his weight slams into me, and everything falls apart.
33
SAINT
We’re stepping out of church when I spot them.
Men in black, moving where no one should be—tactical gear, suppressed rifles, too clean to be local. They’re trying to blend into the shadows, but they don’t understand this place well enough to disappear in it.
Eight of them, minimum. Four I can see—two at each corner of the clubhouse. The rest will be mirrored on the far side, covering exits they think we’ll run for.
Grant’s men. Expensive. Disciplined. Confident enough to believe training beats territory.
They’ve come prepared for a frontal assault.
That’s their first mistake.
