A soft scrape of movement where there should be none.
My head whips around just in time to catch the outline of a dark-clad figure across Ronan’s room. Barely a shadow, blending into the early morning gloom, but I don’t need light to recognize the danger in his stance. The glint of metal. The intent of his posture.
Time stalls. A scream chokes in my throat as I lunge for the gun, heart clawing up into my chest.
“No!” The word rips out of me, sharp and panicked—louder than I mean for it to be, but it’s enough.
Ronan stirs. I see it in a flash—his muscles tense, his eyes snap open just as the shot explodes through the air. He rolls instinctively, but not fast enough.
It lands with a sickeningthud, burying into his chest just below the collarbone. Blood splashes across the sheets as he lets out a brutal, ragged breath.
Pain hits me first—sharp and instant—but it’s rage that takes over.
Pure, blinding rage.
I launch myself across the room without a second thought, instinct overriding everything else. The figure holding the gun startles, clearly not expecting me to be there. They hesitate for half a second, only to realize they’re not alone.
Big mistake.
The gun swings wide in my direction, clumsy and undisciplined. Amateur.
I knock it away with a sharp slap of my hand; the metal grazes my skin as I drive my fist hard into their side. The sound that rips from their lungs is half-growl, half-wheeze—but what really satisfies me is thecrackthat echoes through the room. A rib, definitely. Maybe two.
But the moment of satisfaction vanishes the second my eyes flick to Ronan. He’s bleeding. Slumped and struggling. That split second of distraction is all it takes.
I don’t see the punch until it’s too late—until it slams into my face with bone-jarring force, detonating behind my eyes in a burst of white-hot agony. The sickening crack of my nose fills my ears just before the pain blooms, sharp and searing, blinding for a heartbeat. Blood gushes instantly, spilling down over my lips and chin, hot and metallic. The hit sends me reeling, and I crash to the floor hard, dazed and gasping as the room tilts around me.
The bastard uses the opening, stumbling backward before launching himself out the open window—the same one he must’ve slipped through while I was in the hallway. Perfect fucking timing. He missed me byseconds, and he used the window as if it were a revolving door.
I drag the back of my hand across my mouth, smearing the blood that still runs freely from my nose and lips. My chest heaves with the force of my fury, my heart pounding so violently I can feel it in my throat. The bastard escaped, but that doesn’t matter right now. Not when Ronan’s bleeding behind me. Not when the man I just got back might slip through my fingers all over again.
I start to move—half crawling, half scrambling—toward the bed when the door detonates inward, the crash loud enough torattle the windows. I whip around and fall back hard, scrambling across the floor, heart slamming as I brace for another hit.
Then Rowen storms into the room, breathing like he tore through hell to get here. Emerson is right behind him, gun already halfway raised, eyes feral as they both take in the surrounding wreckage.
And then they freeze.
“What the—” Emerson breathes, the words trailing off like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
The room falls into a heavy, breathless silence. Their eyes sweep across the chaos—first to the blood-soaked sheets, then to Ronan, somehow still upright on the bed, his chest rising in shallow, strained bursts, slick with dark red.
His gaze jerks to me, sharp despite the pain—and that single movement redirects the attention like a magnet.
Rowen and Emerson both follow the line of his eyes.
Their shock is instant—raw, wide-eyed, andvisible—just for a heartbeat. And then, like someone flipped a switch, it vanishes. Their expressions harden into stone, their jaws locking, eyes unreadable.
Whatever they were expecting… it wasn’tme. Made clear in Emerson’s next words.
“What thefuck?” Emerson exhales sharply, the sound tight and low, like the breath has been punched straight from his lungs.
Ronan tries to speak, the sound rough and choked as it scrapes past his throat. His body trembles, chest heaving with effort, and a guttural grunt escapes him that instantly pulls all attention back to the bed. He’s as white as the damn sheets he’s bleeding into—lips tinged blue, skin slick with sweat. He’s slipping fast, consciousness hanging by a thread, and I know without a doubt that if he goes under now, we might lose him.
My body screams to move. Every inch of me is aching to throw myself at his side, to press my hands to the wound and do something—anything—but freeze. If I rush in now, if I show them how much I care, how deeply I feel this, they’ll see me for who I am. Not just a fighter or a shadow. Not just Cupcake.
Berkley.
And I’m not ready for that yet.