Chapter 46 Eli “Trigger” Jennings
Eli “Trigger” Jennings
The back door of the small church blew open like it had been kicked by the devil himself.
And then Rylie Lane was there—white dress, hair half pinned, breath ragged—and running like she’d stolen something precious.
For half a second my brain didn’t work. I just stared across the street, the same way you stare at a crash you can’t stop.
Bare feet slapped the pavement.
Her veil streamed behind her like a flag of surrender.
And I knew—deep, bone-deep—that this wasn’t cold feet.
This was fear.
“Rylie,” I breathed, and she jumped into my truck. I drove to the Tavern when I heard someone.
Rylie hit the curb’s edge and nearly went down. She caught herself, yanked up her skirt with one hand, and sprinted up the steps straight toward The Last Stand Tavern as if she’d memorized the distance in her nightmares. Then she ran across the street, confused and unsure what to do.
A shout ripped through the air behind her.
Male voice. Angry. Commanding.
My jaw locked.
I crossed the street at a run, heart hammering, eyes scanning the churchyard and the line of parked cars. Too many places for someone to be hiding. Too many ways for this to go bad.
Rylie’s gaze flicked to mine.
She looked relieved for one breath—then panic snapped back into place.
Like seeing me reminded her I’d be in danger too.
She reached me, and I didn’t hesitate. I caught her by the waist and pulled her hard against my chest, turning so my back faced the church. Shield first. Questions later.
Her whole body shook.
“Trigger,” she whispered, voice shredded. “Please.”
That single word—please—did something violent to my insides.
“I’ve got you,” I said, low. “You’re safe.”
She made a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh, like she didn’t believe in safe anymore.
Havoc burst out of the tavern door like he’d smelled blood.
Saint was right behind him.
“What the hell—” Saint started.
I didn’t take my eyes off the church. “Get the door. Now.”
Havoc didn’t ask questions. He just moved, broad shoulders blocking the entrance as he checked the street.
Saint rushed up, his gaze snapping over Rylie—bare feet, trembling hands, torn hem. His expression hardened.
“This doesn’t look like a runaway bride situation,” he said quietly.
“No,” I agreed.
Rylie’s fingers clenched in my shirt like she was holding onto the only solid thing left in the world.
Behind us, the church door slammed again.
Then two men emerged.
One wore a suit that cost more than the tavern’s weekly profit. The other looked like security—thick neck, shaved head, eyes scanning like he was hunting.
The suited man’s face twisted when he saw Rylie pressed against me.
He didn’t look heartbroken.
He looked furious.
Possessive.
Dangerous.
“Rylie!” he called, forcing charm into his voice like a man used to controlling rooms. “This isn’t funny.”
Rylie flinched so hard it was like someone struck her.
The blood in my body went cold.
I leaned down, my mouth near her ear. “Is that him?”
She barely nodded.
My hands tightened around her.
Havoc stepped forward, turning his body into a wall. “Private property,” he called calmly. “Keep walking.”
The suited man smiled like he was humoring a child. “She’s my fiancée.”
Rylie made a tiny sound of pain.
I felt it like a blade.
“She doesn’t look like she wants to be,” Saint said.
The suited man’s eyes landed on me, and for a second I saw the real him—calculating, cold, angry that his toy had run.
He took a step closer.
And Rylie’s nails dug into my chest.
That was all I needed.
I shifted Rylie behind me without letting her go, then stepped forward.
“Back off,” I said.
He laughed softly. “And who are you?”
“Someone you don’t want to meet on a bad day.”
His gaze flicked to my shoulders like he was deciding whether I was worth killing.
Then he noticed the others. Havoc. Saint. Two more Rangers in the doorway, watching quietly—Ace and Beast, drawn by instinct and noise.
The suited man’s smile didn’t falter, but it changed.
He took a half step back, reassessing.
“Rylie,” he said again, smoother now. “Come here. You’re embarrassed. I understand. Weddings are stressful.”
Her hand shook against my ribs.
“No,” she whispered.
His eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
Then he nodded, like he was granting her time. “Fine. Take a minute. But we need to talk.”
He turned to the shaved-head guy. “Go get the car.”
The shaved-head guy hesitated, staring at us, then moved off.
The suited man kept his eyes on Rylie. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he said quietly.
And I heard it.
Not a plea.
A threat.
He turned and walked away like he owned the street.
Rylie sagged.
I caught her fully before she hit the ground.
“Inside,” I ordered.
Havoc swung the door open.
I carried her in.