Watching his lips form those words, my resistance evaporates. I nod tremulously. “Okay! Okay, I’m going.”
He returns my nod and, without another beat of hesitation, turns and runs out from behind the column.
Headlong into danger.
Straight into the firefight.
Out of my line of vision.
I hear the sound of his gun letting off rounds and try my best not to count how many he has left in the chamber, not to consider how many more ammo clips he has at his disposal before he’s rendered defenseless. Closing my eyes to keep from imagining the scene unfolding on my front lawn, I wedge myself beneath the bench. It’s a tight squeeze. I feel several splinters pierce my bare legs. A rusty nail snags on my nightgown, tearing a hole through the thin fabric by my ribcage. I yank myself loose and keep going, until my whole body is concealed beneath the wood frame.
As I lay there in the dark, hiding like a damn coward, listening to the sound of bullets and wondering whether Conor Asshole Gallagher — who, it must be said, might not actually be such an asshole after all — is going to make it out of this alive… I replay the look in his eyes just before he left me. And I hear his voice in my head, saying my name for the first time ever.
Shelby.
Please.
A tear trickles down my cheek as I pray the first time isn’t also the last.
* * *
I thoughtthe sound of gunfire was the scariest thing I’d hear tonight. Turns out I was wrong. The silence that falls in its wake is far more terrifying.
Beneath the bench, I’m a statue — waiting for Conor to come back for me, to tell me it’s all clear.
Unless… it’s not…
An eternity passes before I finally hear the sound of footsteps ringing out across the wood porch, closer and closer. They stop just beside the bench and I swallow a bleat of terror. I’m half-convinced it’s one of the Evanoff brothers, come to kill me… until a familiar head of messy black hair ducks down to my level.
“Hey.”
His voice is gruff, stripped of anything resembling warmth, but he extends a hand out to me. I slide my palm into his and suck in a breath when he twines our fingers together before pulling me slowly from beneath the bench. I emerge covered in dust, short of breath, and full of more splinters than a pincushion…
But I’m alive.
I’m breathing.
“Is it over?” I ask when I’m finally back on my feet. I tell myself to drop Conor’s hand, to pull away from his touch, but I can’t seem to make my fingers comply.
Then again, he hasn’t pulled away yet either…
He blows out a terse breath. “They’re gone, if that’s what you mean. But it won’t be over until the fuckers are in custody.”
“They got away?!”
He nods, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on my legs with concern. I glance down and see I’m covered in small cuts and bruises. There’s a long laceration running up my right shin, the pretty pink polish is missing from several of my toes, and the skin of both knees appears to have lost a battle with a cheese grater.
It looks far worse than it feels. Not that I can feel much ofanything, with this much adrenaline pumping through my veins.
His brow is furrowed. “Are you okay?”
“Fit as a fiddle.” I try out a smile but it soon turns to a yelp of pain when Conor pokes me in the side with his free hand. “Ow! What was that for?”
“You’ve got a cut here,” he murmurs, his fingers exploring the sensitive skin of my ribs through the ripped fabric of my nightgown.
“Right.That.” I shrug. “I got snagged on a nail when I was wedging my body under the bench. It doesn’t even hurt.”
“It will later,” he assures me, still prodding the wound.