Or would they ask different questions? Would they dig for other answers—ones she’s not ready to give? Would they believe she’s capable of putting a bullet in me, even if it killed her to do it?
No, I know it wasn’t her.
I was conscious—barely, but enough. I saw the moment it happened. The chaos. The flash of movement. Then I saw her, throwing herself at the shooter, clawing and screaming and fighting to stop him. She didn’t run or freeze. She acted.For me.
And that glint—that unmistakable glint—on the shooter’s wrist sealed it. The gold edge of an overpriced watch that doesn’t leave the arm of Bryce’s right-hand man. That bastard never breathes without Bryce pulling the strings. Which means one thing.
Bryce put a hit on me.
The realization settles like ice in my veins. There’s a whole other storm behind that truth; one I’ll have to face soon enough. But right now? That’s not the fight I care about.
Because while I’ve been stuck in this broken shell of a body, she’s been down there. Inourhouse. Bleeding. Staying silent. Protecting me.
And the people she said she still loves?
They’re the ones hurting her.
My brothers.
The ones I’d trust with my life are now the reason she’s probably breaking apart piece by piece—and they don’t even know it. They’re too blinded by suspicion, by fear, by revenge.
But not me.
I know who she is.
I know what she means to me.
And the second I wake the fuck up, I’m going to find her, pull her out of that basement, and remind everyone in this house exactly who she is—and exactlywho she belongs to.
Chapter Twenty
Berkley
As if Emerson and Rowen have some built-in sixth sense—some invisible radar for exactly when I’m about to do something reckless—their voices suddenly echo from the hallway above. The sound halts me cold at the top of the basement stairs. My breath catches in my throat, and every muscle in my body goes rigid. One more step and they would’ve seen me—out in the open, caught halfway through my escape, exposed with nowhere left to hide.
Not done like “caught and gently escorted back.” No. Toast. And not the golden, buttery kind that makes you feel warm and loved—the kind that’s blackened to hell, curling at the edges, and tossed straight into the trash. That kind of toast.
I press my back against the wall just beyond the stairwell, heart hammering so loudly I’m convinced they’ll hear it over their footsteps. I clench my eyes shut for a moment, just long enough to steel myself for what I’m pretty sure is about to happen next. They’re going to find me out of my restraints. They’re going to freak. And I’m going to go tumbling back down these stairs like a sack of broken bones and bad decisions.
I brace myself, half expecting the door to slam open, heavy boots pounding down toward me. Instead… they stop. Right outside the door.
Their voices rise and fall, the cadence too casual for two men who might’ve just uncovered a jailbreak. They’re annoyed, but not with each other. The tension in their voices is sharp, pointed, laced with frustration—but it’s directed elsewhere. At someone else.
Their fathers.
They bicker, rapid-fire back and forth, like two men who’ve had this same conversation too many times. Names are tossed around—business partners, associates, friends of their dear old dads. Then places. Warehouses, buildings, clubs—properties hit recently, burned, bombed, or otherwise dismantled in a string of calculated attacks.
It takes a second to catch up, to realize what they’re really saying.
They’re losing control.
A slow, wicked smile curls across my lips, sharp with satisfaction—because they have no idea who’s pulling the strings. Not even a hint. And that makes it all so much sweeter.
Then the conversation turns. Emerson’s voice cuts in, wondering out loud if I could be behind it—if I’m the one playing both sides, dismantling their empire from the inside. The room goes quiet, and cold seeps through my veins. My muscles lock, breath stalling in my chest.
That idea hadn’t crossed their minds before. Not really.
But now?