Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Harper
I ’m still pissed.
Don’t get me wrong.
But I’m not pissed in the way I was for the past two weeks—righteous and loud and full of bite.
Now my anger is more of a slow burn, a simmer of regret that aches instead of sears.
I didn’t kill Siobhan, but her blood is still on my hands. I gave Bryan the information. I led her to her death. Not intentionally, but that was the end result.
Tag’s take on things explains a lot—but not everything. I still have questions, and I’m not ready to excuse the violence no matter how justified they think it was.
I understand the pain. I understand his need for justice. I even understand loyalty to the man who raised you with love in a brutal world—but understanding something doesn’t mean I condone it.
An explanation isn’t the same thing as a reason, and sure as hell isn’t an excuse.
Bryan Quinn has blood on his hands and steel in his spine but there are many sides to the man.
The protector. The enforcer. The killer. The lover.
To forgive him means I accept all of it—all of him —and I’m not sure I can do that.
A fist-pounding knock at the door breaks through my thoughts. Followed by another. And another.
It’s not a polite knock.
Seriously? Did Tag call him? Did Bryan hear about me meeting with Tag to ask him questions and rush right over to give me hell?
To tell me I could’ve and should’ve asked him?
I grit my teeth and stomp toward the door. “Of course he did,” I mutter under my breath. “Because Bryan Quinn needs to be the big man and the center of?—”
I yank open the door.
And my blood runs cold.
It’s not Bryan.
Standing on my porch like a phantom from a nightmare, Eddie Mason is flanked by two men in black coats. His suit is pressed. His hair is slicked. His eyes are cold and wild.
“Hello again, Harper.”
I stumble back a step, the door swinging wide behind me.
“Stay here,” Eddie snaps over his shoulder to his men. “I’ll handle this myself.”
My instincts scream, and I run .
Through the foyer. Around the corner. Up the stairs.
Footsteps thunder behind me.
I hit the upstairs hall, screaming as he almost gets his fingers around my ankle from the stairs. His touch makes me stumble and I hit the wall with my shoulder.
The picture I knock falls to the floor, the glass shattering on the hardwood.
My mind is spinning a million miles an hour, my gaze darting for something— anything —I can use as a weapon.
The main bedroom has a balcony that runs along the garage. Maybe I could make the jump and be over the neighbor’s fence before the men on the porch realize.
It’s the only plan I have.
My pulse is in my throat as I run for it, pumping my legs to get to the bedroom I’ve been using before Eddie can catch me.
Say what you want about him being a creep and an idiot, the asshole is fast. I’m almost to the door when I feel his reaching fingers skim the nape of my neck.
I’ll never make it to the balcony.
On a dime, I turn when I get inside the bedroom and slam both my hands into the door to slam it shut. It won’t close. He’s got his leg in the way and pushes me back with a brutal shove.
I’m thrown backward and land on my tailbone with bruising force. Still, I can’t dwell on it. Adrenaline allows me to roll to the side and reach for the lamp on a side table as I scramble back to my feet.
I swing it with everything I have and it connects with his shoulder. It’s enough to knock him to the side, but it doesn’t slow him down—it only pisses him off more.
“Do you think you can fuck with me, little girl?” He lunges, hurling himself at me and taking me to the mattress on the bed.
We scramble, him trying to get a restraining hold and me kicking and clawing with all my might.
Then a sharp yank tears through my scalp.
I scream as I’m dragged back by my hair and whipped around to get slammed hard into the floor.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he roars, spit flying, face contorted with rage. “How much trouble you’ve caused? My uncle iced me out. Said I was a disgrace and won’t speak to me until I deal with the mess you’ve caused.”
“You sold my friends!”
I twist, kicking, scratching, fighting like hell. My elbow slams into his ribs. He grunts.
I grab his wrist, pivot, snap my hips to throw him off-balance. He hits the floor but takes me with him.
His gun is holstered against his left shoulder and we both go for it at the same time. He swings his arm and his elbow catches me in the eye.
My head snaps back as black spots darken my vision. No. I can’t pass out. He’ll kill me if I stop fighting.
I shake my head, but the world is spinning. My strength and coordination abandon me for a moment, but a lifetime of boxing and martial arts has taught me to take a hit.
I hang onto consciousness by a thread, but it’s a win. With both my hands tightened against both of his, we fight for control of the gun.
My arms ache, my muscles losing strength fast. I swing my hips and bring my knee down on his balls, trapping them against the hardwood.
He shouts in my ear and pulls the gun between us. He’s sloppy from pain. I’m losing strength. We’re rolling on top of each other, both of us refusing to let go of the gun clamped between us.
Bang. The gun goe s off.
I’m lost in the panic of the gunshot.
Heat.
Pressure.
And then?—
The burning heat of blood spreading across my chest. I can’t breathe. My vision tilts.
Blood blooms hot and sticky across my shirt, soaking into my skin. I blink up at the ceiling.
It swims. Dims. Slips out of focus.
Eddie’s face looms over me, furious… panicked.
And then—darkness.