"Get off me!" She's clawing at the carpet, trying to drag herself forward. "Let me go, I have to—"
"You have to stay alive." I grab her wrists, forcing them down beside her head. "So stop fucking moving."
Another shot doesn't come. The room is in chaos. Aidan's shouting something. People are running. Heavy footsteps pound through the hallway. Security, probably. Too fucking late.
I lift my head just enough to see Dillon on the ground. There's so much blood. It's on the floor, spreading in a dark pool. On the wall behind where he was standing. And all over Aoife, beneath me—splattered across her face in tiny specks, soaked into her navy dress, in her hair.
One of our security team, Marcus, is on him. Hands pressed to Dillon's throat, trying to stop the bleeding. But I can see it's bad. Real bad. The kind of bad that doesn't have a good outcome.
"Ambulance!" Aidan's voice. "Someone call a fucking ambulance!"
Aoife has gone still beneath me. Not calm. But frozen.
I risk another glance at the window. The glass is completely blown out. Evening air rushes in, cold and sharp. The curtains billow. And beyond, I can see the garden. Empty. Whoever took that shot is long gone.
Professional. Had to be. That wasn't a lucky shot. That was precise. Whoever pulled that trigger knew exactly what they were doing.
"William." Aidan's beside us now, crouched low. "We need to move.”
I nod, but I don't move yet. Don't trust that the shooter isn’t waiting for us to expose ourselves.
"Aoife." I lean down. "I'm going to move you. Stay low. Do exactly what I say."
She doesn't respond. Doesn't even acknowledge I spoke. She's turned her head, her focus on her father. At all that blood.
"Aoife," I say,sharper this time. "Eyes on me.”
Her eyes find mine. They're unfocused. Glazed. She's going into shock.
"Stay with me," I tell her. "We're going to move. But you need to do what I say. Can you do that?"
For a long moment, she just stares. Then, barely, she nods.
"Good girl." I start to shift, keeping my body between her and the window.
Aidan moves into position, his own body creating another shield. Together, we half carry Aoife across the floor toward the door. She's not helping. Her legs won't work right. She keeps trying to look back at her father, twisting in my grip.
"Don't look," I say. "Eyes forward."
We make it to the hallway. More security floods past us, weapons drawn, heading toward the drawing room.
I push Aoife against the wall, my hands on her shoulders, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Are you hurt? Did you get hit?" I’m thinking maybe some of the shards of glass may have cut her.
She shakes her head, but I don't trust it. I run my hands over her arms, her sides, checking for the familiar small spikes of broken glass. There's blood on her dress. Splattered acrossthe navy fabric. Drops on her face. In her hair. Yet, her skin is smooth beneath my hands.
It’s her father's blood.
She's intact. Whole. Just covered in someone else's trauma.
“Aoife,” I say her name.
Her widened gaze shoots to me. Her breathing is coming too fast now. Short, sharp gasps that aren't pulling in enough air. Her pupils are dilated. Skin pale.
Definitely shock.
"Get her some water," I order. "And a blanket."
One of the security guards near us disappears down the hall. I'm left alone with Aoife, pressed against the wall in a hallway that suddenly feels too exposed.
