I wanted Declan.
And that was the most dangerous truth of all.
FIFTEEN
NOTHING LEFT TO HIDE
DECLAN
The blood on my hands was his.
I gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles ache, trying to keep my breathing steady while Troy sat in the passenger seat bleeding all over my truck. His face was a mess. Split lip, bruise blooming across his jaw, cut above his eyebrow that was still dripping red down the side of his face. His ribs were probably cracked again. Maybe worse this time.
And he'd fought anyway. Had thrown himself at that masked bastard like getting killed was just another Tuesday night activity.
My heart was still hammering against my ribs. Adrenaline screaming through my system, making my hands shake, making every thought come too fast and too sharp. I'd left the recoverycenter hours ago feeling relatively fine. Now I was covered in someone else's blood, my knuckles were split open again, and the cut on my forearm from that knife was burning like hell.
But Troy was worse. Always fucking worse, always taking more damage than he should, always pushing himself past the point where his body could hold up.
I pulled into the driveway too fast, killed the engine, and turned to look at him. He was staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, breathing shallow like his ribs hurt too much to pull in a full breath.
“Inside,” I said. The word came out rougher than I meant it to. “Now.”
Troy didn't argue. Just climbed out of the truck moving like every muscle hurt, which it probably did. I grabbed the first aid kit from under the seat and followed him up the walkway.
The house felt too quiet when we got inside. Too normal. Like the world shouldn't just keep existing the same way after what had just happened.
I flipped on the kitchen lights. Troy dropped into one of the chairs at the table, grimacing as he moved. Blood was soaking through his shirt on the left side where his ribs were. Either from the old injury reopening or new damage. Probably both.
I set the first aid kit on the table and grabbed a clean towel from the drawer. Ran it under cold water. Wrung it out.
“Take off your shirt,” I said.
Troy pulled it over his head slowly, teeth gritted against the pain. The bruising across his ribs was ugly. Dark purple and mottled, spreading from his kidney up to his sternum. Fresh blood was seeping from a scrape that ran along his side where he must have hit the pavement.
I pressed the towel against the worst of it. He hissed but didn't pull away.
“Who the fuck were those men?” I asked. Kept my voice level and controlled, even though I wanted to shout. “And don't tell me you don't know, because those were the same caliber of fighters who came after me.”
Troy's jaw tightened. “I'm handling it.”
“Handling what?” I pressed the towel harder. He winced. “You're getting jumped in alleys by professionals who know exactly how to hurt people. That's not what you handle alone.”
“I said I'm working on it.”
“Working on what, Troy?” The anger was bleeding through now. I couldn't keep it locked down anymore. “What the fuck is going on? Why are these men after you? Why are they after me?”
“Because someone wants me scared,” he said. Voice flat and emotionless. “Wants me to leave Chicago.”
“Who?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Bullshit.” I threw the towel on the table. “You don't get jumped twice by the same caliber of fighter without knowing who sent them. You're not stupid. So stop acting like I am.”
Troy looked up at me then. Eyes hard and defensive, the walls slamming back into place even though he was sitting there bleeding. “I told you, I'm handling it.”
“By getting your ass kicked? By dragging this shit to my doorstep?” The fear I had been swallowing since the alley was turning into rage, hot and corrosive in my chest. “By almost getting killed in front of me?”
