Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Harper
I ’m hiding behind a compost bin in someone’s backyard, praying to every god I’ve never believed in.
The pain in my leg is sharp and pulsing—somewhere between a twist and a deep bruise from when I tripped scaling the fence and slammed into the edge of the raised flower bed.
I can’t run anymore.
The cold earth soaks through my jeans, and the sharp scent of fertilizer and wet leaves clings to my skin. I’ve got Eddie’s gun gripped so tight my fingers are going numb, and my breath is loud— too loud —in my ears.
A minute ago, I fired two shots to back down Eddie’s men, and I don’t know if that was smart or suicidal. It gave me a little space, but it won’t hold them off forever.
And now I have two less bullets.
They’re out there. I hear them in the darkness. Their boots crunch over the brittle, November grass as muttered curses edge closer.
I’m shaking, scared that if I move even an inch, they’ll hear. My body aches—from fear, the fall, adrenaline—it’s impossible to know. My arms are sore from climbing, my knee is swelling, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to get up when they find me.
And they will find me.
I shiver. My shirt is still soaked through with Eddie’s blood. It was warm when I jumped off the balcony but is icy against my skin now.
I press my back to the bin and blink hard at the shadows all around me. Don’t cry. Don’t give up. Not yet .
He could still find me. Please, Bryan. Please find me.
And then—I hear it.
The deep, rolling thunder of motorcycle engines. They’re loud and close. And there are a lot of them.
My breath hitches.
It’s him. It has to be him. Bryan… and the Devils.
But what if they’re not the first to find me?
I grip the gun tighter and will the darkness to swallow me up and hide me in the shadows. My heart is lodged in my throat, torn between hope and terror.
A crack of movement behind me makes me spin?—
Shit. They found me.
Two figures burst through the fence to my right, and I scream and roll away. There’s a terrible shout of fury and then more men are barreling into one another. I scramble to see and a cry of relief tears from my throat.
Bryan.
And his brother, Brendan.
The Quinn twins move like unleashed predators—fluid and brutal, indistinguishable in the chaos and the dark. One man slams his fist into the face of the nearest Mason goon, sending him sprawling into the hedges.
The other tackles the second to the ground, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs with enough force to crack bone. There’s no time to think. No time to breathe.
It’s not a fight—it’s an execution.
Fists. Boots. Blood. The pounding of violence and vengeance delivered without mercy. In this light, I don’t know which one is which—honestly, I don’t care.
They are here. Twin protectors fueled by rage.
And then one of them turns, his gaze locking onto mine, and I know— Bryan.
He crosses the distance in three powerful strides and drops to his knees beside me.
“How bad are you hurt?” His breathing is rough, panic scrawled across every inch of his handsome face. His hands go straight to my sides, to the blood soaking my shirt. “Fuck, that’s a lot of blood.”
“It’s not mine,” I whisper, grabbing his wrist. “It’s Eddie’s. I’m okay. I’m okay.”
His arms wrap around me like a vice, crushing me to his chest, and I melt into him, the tremble in my limbs giving way to full-body shaking.
Still, I don’t know who’s trembling more—me or him.
His voice is a growl in my ear, low and rough and barely holding together. “I thought I fucking lost you. I thought I was too late.”
I grip the back of his jacket and hold on. “It’s not. You came. You saved me.”
And for the first time in weeks, I let go… of the fear, the doubt, and most importantly of the worry that I don’t know who he is to the core of his tortured soul.
Of the lie I’ve been telling myself—that I don’t love him… because I do .
God help me, I do.
* * *
The hum of the engine fades as Tag’s driver slows the SUV to wait for two massive iron gates to inch their way open enough to allow us to pass.
I blink, fighting against going back to sleep, my gaze drawn upward, through the windshield. “Where are we?”
Bryan bends his head to kiss my temple. “We’re taking you home, trouble. You’ll be safe there, I swear.”
The towering gates of the Quinn compound part for us, heavy black iron adorned with twisting Celtic filigree. Beyond them, lit gold against the night sky, stands a stone castle.
An honest to goodness castle.
Stone and shadow. Turrets and ivy. It’s the kind of estate that belongs in a movie—except this one’s real. It sits elevated on an expansive property, and rises like a freaking fortress.
Bryan’s arm tightens around me, and I sink deeper into his chest.
I dozed off a few times on the ride, lulled by the rhythm of the road and the quiet thunder of his heartbeat. But even half-asleep, wrapped up in him like this, I’ve never felt safer.
The driver—Aiden, I think—parks the vehicle and doors open, letting in a gust of cold air.
Bryan shifts, one arm beneath my knees, the other cradling my back as he scoops me up like I weigh nothing. I want to protest—but I don’t have it in me. Because right now, I need this. I need him .
Tag leads the way to open a heavy wooden door and Bryan carries me through, into the heart of his world.
The castle interior is old elegance and modern comfort—polished floors, arched ceilings, thick stone walls softened by plush rugs and velvet chairs. Firelight dances along dark wood and glass, throwing flickers across oil paintings and antique shelves.
Waiting by the hearth of a sunken living room are three women, faces warm and expectant, lit by the crackle of the fire.
The first is stunning—mahogany hair pulled over one shoulder, her body full and round with late-stage pregnancy. She smiles as Tag steps forward and wraps her in a protective embrace.
The second is younger, slight but not fragile, with straight black hair that falls to her waist. She practically launches herself into Sean’s arms, burying her face against his chest.
And the third—a curvy blonde with kind eyes and a calm presence—steps toward Brendan, hugs him tightly, then turns to me.
“Are you all right, Harper?” she asks gently. “Can we get you anything?”
Before I can answer, Bryan’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade. “She needs a doctor.” He sets me down carefully on the couch, his touch still burning on my skin. “Where the fuck is Kelvin?”
A new voice, younger, answers from the archway. “On his way. Andrew just passed him through the gates. He’ll be here momentarily.”
Bryan gives him a sharp nod. “Thanks, Finny.”
Tag’s wife steps forward, placing a hand gently on her belly. “We’ll give you some privacy. Cora made a berry trifle with freshly baked pound cake. We’ll set it out in the dining room with coffee and tea for when you’re finished with Doc Kelvin.”
Tag kisses her cheek and runs a hand over his unborn baby. “We’ll be in shortly.”
The women exchange quiet words, hands brushing over shoulders and backs, and then they slip from the room like a practiced routine. Soft steps. Closing doors.
Only a few seconds later, a red-haired man strides into the room, a large medical bag in one hand. If he notices the five Quinn brothers watching him like apex predators, he doesn’t show it.
His eyes go straight to me and then to my top. “I take it this blood isn’t yours or you’d be a lot worse off than ye are.”
“No,” I say, voice hoarse. “I think it’s just my leg.”
“Good. Let’s have a look.” He sets the bag on the coffee table and pulls out a pair of fabric scissors.
“I hope these weren’t your favorite jeans.”
“If they were,” Bryan growls from behind him, “I’ll buy her twenty more. Just fix her leg.”
The doctor lifts a brow, amused, and winks at me. “Guess I’d better get to it then.”
* * *
Doc Kelvin works fast and is efficient. His hands move with the practiced grace of a professional and his calm presence feels like a lullaby tempting me toward slumber after the chaos—or that could also be the adrenaline wearing off.
He numbs my leg, cleans a deep gash, wraps it tight, and makes a couple of dad jokes that land just enough to ease the tension in the room.
When he’s done, he gives Bryan a list of what to watch for, hands over a bottle of pain tablets, and promises to come back tomorrow.
When he takes his leave, he nods once to the brothers standing like sentinels behind the couch.
They follow him out—giving us space.
I sink into the cushions, exhausted. I’m warm and dry and no longer actively bleeding, but I’m wrecked .
Bryan crouches in front of me, his expression tight with restraint. “Ready to head upstairs?”
I nod, unsure whether my voice will work at all.
Without another word, he lifts me into his arms again.
I don’t protest.
The quiet creak of the stairs is the only sound as he carries me higher, his chest solid beneath my cheek, his heartbeat steady and grounding. Every inch of this place feels foreign and so out of my league it’s depressing.
I’m not sure I belong here, but I might want to.
At the top of the stairs, he pauses.
“I want ye in my room,” he says, his voice low and serious. “But if that doesn’t sit well, I can take ye to one of the spares. Yer choice.”
His green eyes meet mine, open and waiting. There’s no expectation there. No pressure. Just that stormy worry he doesn’t seem to be able to hide.
I let out a long, shaky breath. “Your room.”
My answer feels safe. Not too much. Not too little.
“I’m not ready to be alone yet,” I add, quieter. “If that’s okay.”
I know it's non-committal. I know I’m hedging. But everything still feels so raw it’s not the time to make decisions. This isn’t about us—it’s safety.
Bryan understands that. I can see it in the softening of his jaw, the way his grip adjusts—firmer, but gentler somehow.
Yes, he came for me. Yes, he saved me. And yes , I understand he’s not the monster I feared—but I don’t know if I can live with the fact that he hurts people as part of his everyday life.
We enter his room—dark walls, heavy drapes, clean lines softened by warm lighting and a massive charcoal duvet. It’s more elegant than I expected.
Everything about Bryan, is a contrast.
Sharp edges and surprising warmth.
A fireplace glows low across the room, and the bed is massive—a king with a carved wooden headboard that looks older than both of us.
He sets me down with care, then straightens. “Alright then?”
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling absurd for needing to say it out loud, but I do anyway. “Can we keep it a PG event for now?”
A corner of his mouth twitches, but there’s no teasing in it. Then he nods.
“I wasn’t suggesting anything more,” he says, moving toward the bed. “I just need to care for ye and hold ye… to assure myself yer actually safe and sound.”
He eases me down onto the mattress, slow and deliberate.
“Now,” he mutters, glancing at the ruined clothes I’m still wearing, “let’s burn these clothes and get ye cleaned up.”
I let out a half-laugh, half-sob, my eyes burning as I glance down at the dried blood staining my shirt, my jeans, my skin.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Let’s.”