Chapter 42
Ronan
“Hey Siri,” I call out over my car’s Bluetooth. “Do babies imprint?”
Babies do not imprint like animals. They do form attachments to their primary caregivers, usually their mother or father. Would you like to hear the reference articles?
“No.”
So this is an attachment. Ollie is attached to me. The thought settles somewhere warm in my chest. I’m surprisingly okay with it. He’s a good baby. Even if my shin disagrees. But still a good one.
He’s smart too. The fact that he can tell Liam and me apart is honestly impressive. Mom and Dad joke all the time that they probably mixed us up a few times when we were babies because even they couldn’t always tell us apart.
I’ve never thought much about my future.
Not really. I never pictured myself with a family of my own.
Even now, after spending time with Ollie, the thought of having children still makes something uneasy move through me.
There’s too much noise. Too much mess. Too much spit.
But the thought of Ollie not being in my life anymore, of not hearing him babble or watching him glare at me when Colton gets too close, makes something in my chest tighten painfully.
Because somewhere along the way, he stopped feeling like Colton’s responsibility. He started feeling like mine too.
There’s a lot that needs to change in my life now that Colton and Ollie are really going to be part of it. The familiar need for lists starts settling into my head before I’m even halfway back to the apartment. Spreadsheets. Schedules. Plans.
The apartment is the first problem. Is it big enough?
Do we need a house instead? A yard would be good for Ollie.
Somewhere he can run around and play without Colton worrying every second that someone is going to take him.
Then there are pets. God. What if he wants a dog?
I know I would get him one immediately if he asked, but dogs shed, and cats shed, and both are messy in ways that already make me uncomfortable just thinking about them. Maybe a fish. Fish seem manageable.
Then there’s school. How old is he when that starts? There are baby schools, I think. I’ll have to research it. The thought of strangers taking care of him all day makes something in my chest tighten in a way I don’t like. I don’t want strangers around him.
I pull into the parking garage, but my mind is still stuck on houses and schools and whether fish are low-maintenance enough to count as a first pet.
The second I shut the car door, I know I’ve made a mistake.
The sharp metallic click behind me is unmistakable.
A gun. I freeze. Slowly, I raise my hands and turn around.
Moses and Ezra are standing a few feet away.
Both of them look different. The long hair is gone.
So are the beards. But I know them instantly anyway.
Ezra’s gun is aimed straight at my chest. For a second, nobody says anything.
Moses is staring at my car instead, his eyes fixed on the dark windows. Then I understand. He thinks Colton and Ollie are with me.
“So what’s the fucking plan now?” I ask calmly.
When I left the house, I didn’t tell Taylor where I was going. I didn’t bring security. I didn’t think I needed to. I don’t own this building. I don’t control the cameras, the exits, or who comes and goes. For the first time in a long time, I’m completely on my own.
Ezra’s hand is shaking as he holds the gun. Not much. Just enough to make me pay attention to it. My cell phone vibrates against my thigh. I don’t make a move toward it. Neither of the assholes seems to notice.
“Where’s Colton and the baby?” Moses asks.
The sound of Colton’s name coming out of his mouth makes something violent rise inside me. Like he has any right to say it. Like he has any right to know where they are.
“Somewhere you can’t touch them.”
“You think you’re so smart.” Moses takes a step closer. “You have no idea who you’re messing with. I know exactly who you are and how much your family is worth.”
He smiles, but there’s nothing friendly in it.
“How much do you think they’ll pay to get one of their precious sons back?”
I blink at him once. Twice. For a second, I’m not even sure if he’s asking a rhetorical question or if he genuinely expects me to give him a number.
“We need to get moving,” Ezra says. There’s a tremor in his voice now. A nervous edge that wasn’t there a second ago. Moses is using him for muscle, but he’s a weak link in the plan.
“No.”
I widen my stance slightly, grounding myself while I watch Ezra’s hand tighten around the gun. He’s nervous, too nervous. And nervous people make mistakes. Unfortunately, they also shoot people. And by my calculations, I’m about to be shot.
“You think you have a choice?” Moses snaps. “Did you miss the fact that there’s a gun pointed at you?”
I don’t answer. I already know exactly how bad this is.
“You will do as you’re told,” he says. “Now get in the car.” He points toward my car like he’s already won.
“I need to get my keys from my pocket,” I say evenly. “Tell Twitchy over there not to get trigger happy. I’m not worth much to you dead.”
The knife is in the same pocket as my keys. Quick-release blade. Four-point-six seconds to deploy and hit a target from ten feet away. Ezra is less than six. The problem is that even four-point-six seconds is slower than a nervous finger on a trigger. I start lowering my right hand slowly.
“Keep your hands up,” Moses says. “I’ll get the keys. Wouldn’t want you trying anything.”
I have to fight not to laugh. He’s going to walk right into my reach. As complicated as his business structure is, I expected him to be smarter than this. Instead, he steps closer with that same smug look on his face.
Four feet.
Three.
The second he gets within reach, I move. I pivot hard to the right, grab a fistful of his shirt, and yank him off balance before spinning him around. He isn’t ready for it.
The gunshot echoes through the parking garage a split second later, so loud in the enclosed space that it feels like it rattles my teeth. Then comes the burn. Hot and sharp along my side, like someone dragged fire across my skin. I’m hit. The thought registers, but I shove it aside.
Moses starts fighting immediately, twisting and throwing his weight around, but he’s too late. I drag him back against my chest and lock my arm around his throat, using him as a shield while we both face Ezra. Ezra’s eyes go wide. The gun wavers in his hand.
“You going to take another shot?” I ask, my voice rougher than I want it to be. I tighten my hold on Moses just enough to make him choke. “Because chances are high you hit your precious prophet instead.”
“Let him go,” Ezra says, his voice cracking around the words.
“No.”
I tighten my arm around Moses’s throat until he makes a strangled sound.
He keeps fighting, clawing at my forearm, throwing his weight around, but I’m locked in too deep for him to get free.
His back is pinned hard against my chest, my arm tight around his neck, and I can feel the panic starting to set in beneath all his anger. Good. He should be afraid.
The uncertainty on Ezra’s face is almost painful to watch. He looks at Moses like he’s waiting for instructions, but Moses can’t give them. Not with the way I’m cutting off his air.
“What’s the next move, Ezra?” I ask.
Moses jerks harder against me, but I only tighten my hold.
“In the next ten seconds, he’s going to lose consciousness. A few minutes after that, he’s going to stop breathing.” My voice stays calm, even though I can feel blood running warm down my side. “And then you’ll be standing there with a gun while I’m holding a dead man.”
I squeeze harder. Moses’s movements start to weaken.
I keep my eyes on Ezra the entire time. I see the exact second he makes his decision.
He should run. Every survival instinct he has should be telling him to turn around and get the hell out of here.
But his loyalty to the man I’m choking is apparently stronger than his self-preservation.
He starts toward me with the gun still raised.
Then he lets out some kind of war cry. What the fuck?
Is that supposed to be intimidating? Because it mostly just sounds ridiculous.
He closes another step of distance, and then a deafening boom cuts through the garage.
Ezra jerks. His body stops moving forward so suddenly that it almost looks unnatural.
For a second, he just stands there. Then he crumples to the ground.
Liam stands a few feet away, sliding his gun back into his belt like he didn’t just shoot someone.
“Do you think you can explain to Ollie that I saved your life?” he asks. “Maybe then he’ll stop throwing shit at me.”
“I don’t think that’s an appropriate conversation to have with a baby,” I say. “Besides, I had it handled.”
Moses finally goes limp in my arms. I let him drop.
He hits the concrete hard. The second I let go of him, the pain in my side comes crashing back full force.
The adrenaline is still enough to keep me standing, but barely.
It feels like fire spreading through my ribs, hot and wet and wrong.
I look down. There’s a lot more blood than I want there to be.
“Sure you did,” Liam says dryly. “That’s why you’re bleeding out.”
He pulls out his phone and makes a call while I lean back against the side of my car.
I shrug out of my jacket as quickly as I can and ball it up, pressing it hard against my side.
It’s difficult to tell exactly where the bullet hit.
Everything burns. Everything feels wet. Blood is soaking through my shirt and sticking to my skin, and every breath drags sharp pain through my ribs.
I force myself to take slower breaths. Stay upright.
Stay conscious. Because the second Colton hears about this, he’s going to panic.
“Come on, let’s get you to the doctor. We’ll meet him at the compound.” Liam turns as a SUV pulls to a stop. Conor and Finn get out and walk over to us.
“Fuck Ronan. Mom’s going to be pissed.” Conor says, coming over to look at my wound.
“Why the fuck would she be pissed? I got shot, and Moses is done.”
“You left without telling anyone. You’re shot because you were a dumb ass.” Finn adds unhelpfully as he places zip ties on Moses’ wrists. “Now we have to try to keep this piece of shit alive until you get better. Waste of resources if you ask me.”
“No,” I say, pushing myself off the car. “Take him to the compound and get whatever information we need from him. Then kill him.”
“It’s your kill, though,” Liam says, looking genuinely confused.
He’s right. It is mine. Under normal circumstances, I would stay to finish it myself.
But I learned something from Colton when we dealt with the others.
Sometimes it’s enough to know it’s being handled.
Colton doesn’t need revenge or blood or vengeance right now.
He needs to feel normal. He needs routine.
He needs to know I’m coming back to him.
If I stay here, if I drag this out any longer than I have to, that’s more time before I can get back to him. More time for him to worry. More time before he gets what he needs, Colton matters more to me than the right of the kill.
“You take it. Just get me back to the house before I pass the fuck out.”