Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Oh no.
He stands to his full height, which is usually enough. Whoever it is usually clocks who they're dealing with and finds somewhere else to be.
“Look at her. Acting like a fucking child,” the guy says to his mate.
What the hell?
Declan steps in front of me, but he doesn’t look at the man’s face. His eyes are moving, slow, deliberate, as if he already knows who this is and where this is going.
“Watch your fucking mouth.” His voice is a low, even growl. “Don't talk to her that way.”
“Yeah?” The man squares up. “You gonna do something about it?”
Oh no. Oh god. Does this man not know who he's talking to?
Declan's eyes go flat and cold in that particular way that means all the warmth in him has been set aside for later.
“I don't want to get into this tonight, brother, not here,” he says. “Walk away now. I won't repeat myself.”
I have never heard him talk to anyone like that before, as if it isn't a threat but a courtesy. Like he's doing the man a favor by warning him at all.
“Nah,” the guy says, getting in Declan's face. “Not really in the mood.”
No, no, no, no.
“Declan, leave it,” I whisper, because my nerves are frayed and this isn't going to end well, even though I know there’s no way he’s going to walk away and leave it.
“Declan?” The man says it flat, not a question. He knows him.
That's when I see them.
Four men. Not close—positioned deliberately, spread across the street and at the mouth of the alley opposite, far enough back that running wouldn't help. Far enough back that there's nowhere to go. One behind a parked van. One in a doorway. Two more materializing from between cars, unhurried, like they've been waiting all evening. Weapons already raised.
This was never a chance encounter. He knew that man. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.
This is no accident.
“Leave him alone!” I shout, because I don't know what else to do.
Declan moves before I finish the sentence. He grabs the edge of the bistro table and flips it—solid iron top, scraping concrete—and shoves me behind it in one motion, using his own body to finish the job. Then he wheels and takes the big man down hard, fast, no ceremony, and the crack of it turns my stomach.
I'm on the ground behind the table, my phone in my shaking hands, and I can't remember picking it up.
“Text Cavin!” I scream, pressing the side button, but my voice comes out wrong—too high, shredded at the edges.
Lickety Split. Emergency. Come now.
“Bridget, move—”
Then the shooting starts from across the street, and Declan's body is over mine, covering me completely, one arm curved around my head, his weight crushing and the only safe thing in the world right now.
I don't know if I've sent it. I don't know if I'm standing or crouching. The world has gone to noise and color and the smell of something I don't have a name for yet.
A black SUV screeches to a stop. Not Cavin—it's too fast, impossible—but McCarthy bodyguards pour out like they were already waiting, like they knew before I did that this was going to happen. Four of them. Six. The doors are still swinging open.
They didn't listen to me or Declan. Thank god they didn't listen to us.
“Weapons down!” one of them bellows, and then the shooting starts in earnest—not a single crack but a wall of sound, overlapping and incessant, the air itself turning violent. The men who came for us don't scatter. They return fire, methodical, like this is work. Like we're work and this is exactly what they wanted.
I'm under Declan's body, my face pressed to rough gravel. He's cursing and shooting, and I can't see a damn thing.
But the McCarthys are trained and relentless. The ground between them fills with glass and blood and the wreckage of a perfectly ordinary evening.
Then silence.
Declan is still on top of me. His body is a dead weight across mine, one arm still curved around my shoulders like he meant to pull me down and forgot to let go. The ice cream is everywhere, pink and white, melting against the pavement, already bleeding into something darker.
I know before I touch him.
“Declan.” My hand finds his shoulder and comes away wet. Crimson. The word arrives before the reality does, detached and clinical, and then the reality hits. “Declan, no. No, no—”
I'm on my knees. I don't remember getting there.
“You're alright?” His voice is wrong—too steady, too careful, the voice of a man using the last of his control to sound like he has any. “Are you alright? Tell me you’re okay, Bridget.”
“Stop.” I press both hands flat against the wound, and he makes a sound I will never stop hearing. “Stop talking. You've been shot. You’ve been—” My voice breaks. I drag it back together by force. “Call an ambulance.” I look up at the nearest bodyguard—he's reloading, hands completely steady, and I want to scream at the steadiness of him. Don’t they know Declan’s been shot? Don’t they know my entire world has been fractured into pieces?