Chapter 33 Saint
SAINT
We’re stepping out of church when I spot them.
Men in black, moving where no one should be—tactical gear, suppressed rifles, too clean to be local. They’re trying to blend into the shadows, but they don’t understand this place well enough to disappear in it.
Eight of them, minimum. Four I can see—two at each corner of the clubhouse. The rest will be mirrored on the far side, covering exits they think we’ll run for.
Grant’s men. Expensive. Disciplined. Confident enough to believe training beats territory.
They’ve come prepared for a frontal assault.
That’s their first mistake.
This land is ours. Every blind spot. Every sound. Every place a man thinks he’s alone. And tonight, Wren is inside those walls.
They think they can come in here and take what’s mine.
I don’t look for Sin. I already know he’s gone.
Fast, silent, dropping the first two with lethal precision. Honed violence. He’s my enforcer for a reason.
Sin carves us a path to follow, Judge is at my back, holding the others in the garage. If we all file out at once, we’ll give ourselves away. I point to my number two, gesture for him to cover us and tap Doc on the shoulder.
He doesn’t like fighting, but he can get the job done, and there’s no way he’ll stay behind with Wren in danger. Sin signals, and we follow, clean and methodical.
The silence doesn’t last long. Shots ring out from the garage, engaging with the other half of the tactical team. Surprise gone, but we’ve far enough.
Gun drawn, I round the front of the clubhouse to the sight of Sin slamming one man into the wall, knocking the wind out of him.
I shoot his partner with two rounds in the chest.
Sin shoots the other man in the temple as soon as he falls to his knees. And we have a clear path inside.
Two of my men lay dead on the bar floor, 9 mms to the forehead. Those weren’t the shots we heard. I take a breath to mourn, but I have to find Wren before we can do anything for them.
My eyes follow the muzzle of my gun, sweeping back and forth as we clear the place. Glancing at the door downstairs, my gut says no. Not yet. Let the other men clear it behind us.
Because Wren has been hiding away in the laundry room more often, like the noise and smells out here have been overloading her. Too many bouts of nausea that has me more than concerned about her.
Wren has to be back there now.
I hear the shot before I make it through to that side of the lounge, before I make it to the hallway that will lead me to her.
No.
Not like this.
It can’t be too late.
I promised her.
The shot rings in my ears, the image of her falling, bleeding out on the floor…
I can’t do this again. I cannot lose her like this.
Please, for the love of all things holy, don’t do this to me again.
My hand tightens around the handle of my gun, finger twitching near the trigger, ready to shoot someone else. I will massacre anybody who stands in the way of keeping my wife safe.
Wren’s brother, Robbie, stands in the laundry room doorway with a gun in his hand.
“Delaney. Move,” I snarl.
He jumps, twisting to face me before stepping to the side.
Wren stands opposite him, her face pale, shoulders trembling, a gun aimed at the ground where Grant lays, gaping on the floor. His blood spreads across the front of his light blue dress shirt. No wound in his chest. No bullet hole in his shirt.
I step around Robbie, watching Grant struggle. His mouth is open like a fish without water—without air. Blood spreads out below him, a fast moving puddle that has my heart singing.
Satisfaction. Relief. Vindication. The man’s eyes go unfocused, then he slumps and death makes him go blank. Go slack.
Good fucking riddance.
My gun slips back into its holster as I examine Wren. She hasn’t been touched by the blood. Although she’s shaking, the gun in her hands still aimed at Grant even though he’s dead.
It’s instantly clear that she didn’t fire—but she almost did.
I glance at Robbie, his face grim and resolute.
Wren didn’t shoot him. Robbie did. In the back.
It’s fucking time her birth family protected her.
“Wife,” I murmur, my voice raw in my throat. “Give it to me.”
I hold my hand out, but she doesn’t move. Her eyes are unfocused. She’s disassociated. Her finger twitches over the trigger, and she’s still in that moment even though it’s passed. She’s not in danger anymore. Not from him.
My hand finds her wrist, and I pull the gun free from her hand.
It snaps her back to reality. Instead of falling into my arms, Wren launches herself at her brother.
She hits him hard, almost knocking them both back, and he catches her easily with one arm, tucking his gun away before wrapping her up completely. He’s not just holding her, he’s making a promise, a vow.
Robbie’s eyes squeeze shut as he presses his cheek to the top of Wren’s head and breathes her in as she sobs.
The sound isn’t loud, but it tears through me, through Sin and Doc as we watch.
“I almost did it. I almost—I was going to—thank you. Thank you. You saved me. You saved me from him…and from myself.”
Her brother rocks her like he’s been waiting years for this moment of connection. How long have they been forced to play roles that kept them apart?
“I told you I’d protect you. And I will. I’m going to cooperate with the authorities and keep you out of it.”
His promise sounds genuine, and if he means it, if he keeps her out of it, I’ll put everything I have behind him for support. He kept her safe when we could have been minutes, seconds too late.
There’s no way to thank him for that. Not truly.
When she finally pulls away from her brother, eyes red and breathing rough, she turns back toward me. She looks up at me expectantly, waiting for judgement. Not comfort.
I step toward her, cradle her jaw, and whisper, “You were going to kill him.”
Wren’s lips part, but she can’t answer.
I lean in, forehead touching hers, soaking her in. The relief of being able to touch her, to count her shaky breaths, feel her hands curl into the front of my shirt. It’s more than enough. It’s everything.
I could have lost her.
“And I’m not sure,” I whisper, “if it terrifies me…or has me falling harder.”
“Pretty girl just tried to commit a homicide. I respect the hell out of her.” Sin’s dry comment tugs at the corner of my mouth.
It’s sexy as hell to think she can take care of herself. She’s strong enough. But I’m glad she didn’t have to. Killing someone irrevocably changes you.
Her sniffle is part laugh, even if weak. She’s going to have to process a lot. This is a good sign. I don’t want her to be wrecked over this.
“Don’t encourage her.” Doc all but growls the words, but I can feel his relief, too.
Wren stiffens in my arms, and I shush silently in her ear, hugging her harder, my hand creating a soft circle over her back.
“I mean…he deserved it.” Pixie’s attitude is spot on fire. Not a shred of disappointment in her tone.
The fuck did deserve it. You can only escape karma for so long.
I growl without looking back at them. Nothing could tear me away from my wife right now. “Shut up. All of you.”
Wren gives a tiny, broken laugh into my chest, and I know she’ll be okay.