And that’s what pisses me off the most.
I rub at my chest, right over the spot where the ache has settled like something permanent—low and pulsing, a reminder of everything I’ve buried and still can’t escape. My heart pounds harder than I want to admit, like it’s trying to claw its way out from behind my ribs. The conversation has already sunk its teeth in too deep, and I can feel myself unraveling—too raw, too exposed.
So, I shift. Pivot. Throw the conversation in a different direction because I can’t sit in the wreckage Emerson just laid at my feet. Not tonight.
I mutter something half-hearted—something about needing more whiskey or dragging Ronan’s stubborn ass back from whatever conspiracy rabbit hole he’s fallen into. Emerson plays along, letting the subject drop, but the silence between us now feels heavier, more loaded.
And then… a sound.
A rustle. Sharp. Soft. Butwrong.
Emerson and I both go still, heads snapping toward the hallway. Every muscle in my body locks into place, instincts firing all at once. That wasn’t the house settling. That wasn’t the wind.
Before we can reach for a weapon or call out—BANG.
A gunshot tears through the quiet, loud enough to rattle the windows and drop my stomach to the floor.
We’re on our feet in an instant, both moving before thought catches up. The haze of liquor evaporates as if it were never there.
We tear down the hallway, my pulse thundering louder than our footsteps. There’s no time to think, no time to breathe—just that single, echoing gunshot replaying in my head like a warning I heard too late.
I don’t hesitate—I lower my shoulder and ram Ronan’s door with everything I’ve got. The lock splinters with a loudcrack, the door slamming open and bouncing off the wall behind it. I’m already moving through the threshold when the scene inside hits me like a freight train—and I freeze.
What I see stops me cold.
Ronan is sitting up in the center of his bed, chest heaving, his muscles rigid with tension. For a split second, I think maybe he just startled awake—until I see it. The deep crimson stain spreading across his chest, vivid and wet, soaking into the sheets beneath him.
Blood.
It takes me a beat too long to process the scene, but when it hits, it hits hard. My gut lurches. My throat goes dry.He’s been shot.
Our eyes lock across the room, and I see it—pain, yes, but also a calm acceptance that makes my stomach twist. There’s no panic in his expression, just that same quiet, steady look he always wore when he’d take a hit and keep standing. But then his gaze flicks past me, sharp and focused, like something behind me suddenly matters more than the bullet in his chest.
Emerson sees it too. “What the—”
I spin around just in time to catch a shadow slipping along the far wall.
A figure—small, fast, and cloaked in darkness—is crab-walking toward the window, trying to disappear before we can react. Purple hair flashes in the dim light, wild and unmistakable.
The fighter.Cupcake.
“What thefuck?” Emerson breathes beside me.
I move in, pulse pounding, every instinct on high alert.
Whoever she is, she just tried to put my brother in the ground.
And there’s no damn way she’s walking out of here without giving me answers.
Chapter Fifteen
Berkley
Several things happen at once, too fast to process in any logical order.
The moment I step into the hallway, familiar voices filter up from the front foyer—low, tired, and unmistakablythem. Rowen and Emerson are home. My heart jolts in my chest, a sudden spike of panic tightens my throat. I freeze mid-step, pulse pounding in my ears as I weigh my options. I can’t be seen. Not yet. Not like this. I take two careful steps backward, keeping my breathing steady as I retreat toward Ronan’s door. My fingers find the knob, and I ease it open just enough to slip inside, closing it softly behind me. The lock clicks back into place with a quiet snick, and for a moment, I think I’ve bought myself time—just enough to stay unseen, to regroup before figuring out my next move.
But then I hear it—something shifts behind me.