When I kissed him, he tasted like coffee and uncertainty and the fear that this was going to break both of us. But he kissed me back anyway, one hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, holding me in place like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
When I pulled back, his expression had softened just slightly. Enough that I could see the cracks in his armor.
“We'll figure it out. We'll argue. We'll fight. We'll probably make each other miserable half the time. But that's what happens when things get complicated. You don't run from it. You stay and you work through it.” My voice came out rougher than I wanted it to.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“Well. You signed up for exhausting the day you decided to raise me.” I kissed him again, slower this time. “So what do you say? You want to keep doing this and see where it goes? Or are we calling it a mistake and pretending it never happened?”
Declan's hands tightened on my waist. “I don't want to pretend it didn't happen.”
“Good.” I stepped back, grabbed my coffee. “Then we're on the same page.”
“Are we though?” He stood too, and I could see the doubt still living in his eyes. “Because I still don't know what this is. What we are. What happens when?—”
Glass exploded.
The bedroom window upstairs shattered with a crack that cut through everything. The sound was immediate and unmistakable, followed by the echo of a gunshot that made my blood run cold.
I hit the floor on instinct and pulled Declan down with me. More glass rained down from somewhere above us. Another shot rang out. Then silence fell, heavier than the gunfire.
“Stay down.”
“What the fuck—” Declan started.
“Sniper.” I crawled toward the living room, staying low and using the furniture as cover. “Someone just shot through your fucking window.”
“Are you hit?”
“No. You?”
“No.”
I made it to the living room and grabbed my phone from where I'd left it on the coffee table last night. My hands were shaking with adrenaline, turning everything into focus.
This wasn't a warning anymore. This was an execution attempt. Someone had waited until morning, until we were vulnerable and comfortable, and taken a shot.
I pulled up Luka's number and hit call.
He answered on the second ring. “Troy.”
“Someone just put a bullet through Declan's window. Sniper. At least two shots. We're both fine but this is escalating fast.”
“Where are you now?”
“Living room. Ground floor. Out of the sight line.”
“Stay there. I'm sending Dmitri.” I heard movement on his end. Voices in the background. Keys jangling. “He's already in Chicago. I had him come in two days ago when the pattern started looking wrong.”
“You anticipated this?”
“I anticipated trouble. Didn't think it would escalate to sniper fire this fast.” More movement on his end. Car doors slamming. “How far away was the shooter?”
“Don't know. Didn't see them. Just heard the shots and the glass breaking.”
“Fuck.” Engine noise now, loud and immediate. “Dmitri's five minutes out. Maybe less. He's got keys to the safe house I bought last month. You're going there until we sort this out.”
“Luka—”
