24. Chapter Twenty-Four Kieran
Chapter Twenty-Four: Kieran
R uby had fucking won.
And I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Not because she wanted me here—but because someone had to be. Because she was too stubborn to realize what kind of danger she was in now. Because if I wasn’t here, Tristan would be. And if Tristan got to her first, I wasn’t sure either of us would survive it.
The city was still buzzing from her win, but this street was quiet, her brownstone dark. Everyone else had gone to sleep thinking this was just the beginning of a new era. They didn’t know what came next.
I did.
I sat behind the wheel, engine off, my fingers curled against the leather like I was ready to launch. My gaze stayed fixed on the windows. She was probably asleep by now. Or lying awake, thinking she was safe. Thinking it was over.
It wasn’t.
She didn’t understand. She couldn’t. Tristan wasn’t going to let this slide. He wouldn’t get angry—not yet. He’d get strategic. And when he did, he’d send someone. Someone efficient. Someone lethal.
Unless I got to her first.
I told Tristan I would stop her.
And now she’d fucking won.
Which meant I wasn’t just here to watch her.
I was here to make sure she lived long enough to see what that win would cost.
I felt fucking stupid. Stupid for being here, stupid for caring. For letting her worm her way into my thoughts when I knew better. She was supposed to be a complication I’d handle, a distraction at most.
Something to eliminate if she got in my way, to ignore if she didn’t.
And she wasn’t supposed to win.
The city should have been laughing at her, not celebrating her. She was supposed to crash and burn. She was supposed to be pissed and vulnerable, easier to distance myself from. Instead, she’d won the DA’s race, and now she was more untouchable than ever.
I gritted my teeth, the memory of her triumphant face plastered across every TV in the city.
Ruby Marquez. District Attorney.
The first thing I thought about in the morning and when I went to bed at night.
The street was so goddamn quiet. No traffic, no people. Just me, sitting in my car like an idiot, watching her dark windows, waiting.
My head dropped against the seat. She was taking up space where other thoughts should have been, where my plans and family and duty usually lived. She wasn’t supposed to matter. And now, every move I made had her shadow on it. Every time I tried to push her away, she was back.
Some fucking complication.
A smart woman in a world she wasn’t built for, against the odds but fighting anyway. Someone who fucking won no matter the cost.
Sounded familiar.
The air in the car was stifling, clinging to my skin and making me restless. I shifted, rolling down the window. The cool bite of Boston in autumn flooded in, doing nothing to clear the fog in my head.
She was a headache I couldn’t shake, a problem I couldn’t solve. And all because I’d been so sure I could control it. Control her. Control myself.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, letting my head tip back against the seat. Maybe I could close my eyes. Just for a second.
Just long enough to—
A scream.
My entire body snapped upright.
Ruby.
The sound shot through me like a live wire, slicing through the sluggish haze in my head. My grip on the steering wheel went white-knuckled as I scanned the house. It was quiet again. Too quiet. But something was wrong.
And then I saw it. A broken window on the ground floor, the jagged edges of glass catching the faint glow of a streetlamp. My pulse kicked up, my instincts firing all at once.
Just like the day she’d cut her hand open…just like when she’d fallen into the harbor. I couldn’t hesitate when she was in danger.
I was already in motion, instincts dragging me through the haze and into focus. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Another flash of panic cut through me—too fast, too sharp. My blood roared in my ears. My gaze darted from the window to the house to the street. Quiet.
Too fucking quiet.
My hand shot to the door handle, adrenaline slicing through me like ice water. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I didn’t even remember I had a gun on me.
I just moved.
Because something was happening. And someone had sent a message.
My stomach twisted. I knew this playbook. I’d used this playbook. Quiet neighborhood. Dead street. A broken window. A woman home alone.
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t some junkie breaking in. This was surgical. Personal.
Tristan.
My feet hit the pavement before my mind caught up. Didn’t matter. I was already halfway there. I moved fast, like muscle memory—like every instinct I’d spent years trying to bury had just snapped back into place.
He fucking sent someone. After her.
The realization hit harder than the cold air in my lungs. Rage clawed up my throat, coiled around my spine.
I crossed the street in seconds, heart slamming against my ribs, the taste of metal on my tongue. The window was still there, blown wide open like a challenge. It drove me forward, every breath sharper than the last.
She screamed.
Not imagined this time.
Real. Ripped from her throat. Real enough to gut me. Real enough to make me want blood.
I didn’t pause. Didn’t slow.
This was a hit.
And he’d made a mistake.
Because he hadn’t just come after Ruby.
He’d come after what was mine.
I reached the front door, tried the handle, found it locked.
Didn’t let it stop me, didn’t let it get in the way.
I kicked. Hard. Wood met bone, and for a second it held.
For a second I thought I’d have to break every bone in my leg to get through.
But I didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, just drove my heel into it until the world exploded, until the wood shattered, until the whole thing crashed open.
And then I was inside.
The house was dimly lit, warm even in its silence, the glow from the under-cabinet lights spilling into the hallway. But it wasn’t quiet. A crash. A grunt. A sharp, choked gasp. I followed the sound, moving fast. Something—someone—was struggling with her.
I heard her voice, breathless, pained, and my vision went sharp with focus.
The staircase.
My boots barely made a sound against the hardwood as I rounded the corner, taking it all in at once.
My legs burned as I ran, my entire body locked into one singular purpose. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate.
Ruby—struggling against a man twice her size, his hands on her, pinning her against the railing. She was fighting him, her nails digging into his skin, her breath coming in sharp, pained bursts. He was trying to kill her.
Everything seemed to move at half speed. Every sound, every crash and grunt and scrape, was sharp enough to cut through the fog of adrenaline, every sight a flashbulb moment burned into my brain. I saw everything, heard everything. And then it all happened at once.
He was on her. That was the only thing that mattered.
And I was going to rip him apart.
I reached the stairs, my heart pounding, the urgency in me building, mounting, turning into something fierce and raw and uncontainable. The risk of the situation didn't slow me down, didn’t scare me.
It pushed me forward, drove me to do what I needed to do, what I was good at. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just the sharp clarity of the moment, the kind I hadn’t felt in weeks. The kind that felt like it was going to split me open.
I was close. So fucking close. I could practically feel the air vibrating around us, around the struggle, the crash of bodies hitting wood, the heavy, panicked breaths of two people fighting for control.
Ruby and a man I didn’t recognize at first, a man who was about to wish he’d never touched her.
My foot hit the bottom step. My eyes locked on her. The world shrank, focused, centered on one thing. Her.
My boots pounded against the hardwood, silent as shadows, moving as fast as I was, as fast as my pulse, as fast as my need to reach her.
I was there. I was close enough to see her face, close enough to see the fear and determination and anger.
“Kieran—”
My name, broken on her lips, a sharp twist of sound that lodged in my gut.
The fucker thought he was going to kill her. Thought I wouldn’t make it in time. Thought I wouldn’t do whatever it took to stop him.
Thought he could finish this before I got my hands on him.
I did know him. He had been watching her from across the street.
I hit him low, driving my shoulder into his ribs, my momentum slamming him sideways into the banister.
The impact shook the house, the wooden railing groaning under the force.
He let out a choked noise, caught off guard, but he recovered fast, twisting toward me, swinging.
I ducked, barely avoiding the hit, my blood roaring in my ears.
Ruby stumbled back, catching herself against the stairs, and I spared her a glance—just long enough to make sure she was standing, just long enough to see the way her eyes widened.
The guy lunged.
I twisted, catching his arm, driving my knee into his gut. He grunted, staggering, but he was strong. Bigger than me. Didn’t matter. I drove my fist into his face, felt the crunch of bone under my knuckles. He reeled, but he wasn’t done.
His hands scrambled for something—his pocket, his belt—a knife.
I barely had time to register it before he was swinging. Pain, white-hot, licked across my side. I barely registered it. The rage had settled deep, thick as tar, twisting through muscles, dulling the pain in my ribs, the sting at my side.
I snarled, catching his wrist before he could twist the blade deeper, forcing it back, using his momentum against him.
We hit the floor, hard, my knee pressing into his ribs, his arm twisted at an impossible angle. Ruby was saying something—my name, maybe, or a plea for mercy this fucker didn’t deserve. Didn’t matter. He’d come here to kill her. And I wasn’t going to let him walk away.
I didn’t stop hitting him.
I couldn’t.
Blood slicked my knuckles, warm and wet, but I barely felt it. The rage had settled deep, threading through my muscles, dulling the pain in my ribs, the sting in my side. The only thing that mattered was making sure this fucker never got up again.
He gasped under me, spitting blood, his limbs twitching weakly. His face was unrecognizable—swollen, broken, drenched in red. His chest barely lifted with each ragged breath. I could hear Ruby in the background, somewhere just beyond the haze, saying my name.
“Kieran.”
A whisper. A plea.
But I wasn’t done.
This was the kind of man who hurt people and never paid for it. I knew his kind, the type that walked free while the people they hurt carried their scars for the rest of their lives.
My hand fisted in his collar, dragging him up just to slam him back down.
Men like him didn’t get warnings.
Men like him didn’t get second chances.
I pulled my fist back again, ready to drive it down one more time—ready to end this.
But then he moved.
It was a twitch, barely more than a reflex. A jerk of his arm, fingers twitching toward something. I didn’t know what—I didn’t care.
The rage sharpened, focused, burning through me like a live wire.
I grabbed him by the collar, lifted his head, and slammed it back down.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Everything inside me screamed for more, screamed for certainty. My body knew nothing but this.
A fourth.
A fifth.
His body jerked, his breath coming out in a wet, gurgling choke.
I moved my fist back to punch him again—Ruby.
Her hand, small and steady, closing around my wrist.
“I think you’re done,” she said.
I wasn’t. I wanted to hit him again, to hear his bones crack one last time, to feel his blood against my hands.
But she was looking at me. Not afraid, not really. But watching.
I exhaled sharply, muscles screaming as I let go. My body wasn’t ready to stop, wasn’t ready to still, but I pulled back anyway, forcing air into my lungs.
The rage inside me flickered—not gone, not really—but shifting, unraveling at the edges.
His body twitched once, then nothing.
I was breathing hard. My arms shook, my body buzzing with too much, too much, too much.
“I think he’s dead.”
I blinked, chest heaving, mind fogging, suddenly aware of the tremor in my limbs, the sharpness of every breath.
Not one of Tristan’s…somebody else.
The guy from the parking lot.
I hadn’t done enough to scare him off.
The silence that followed was thick, pressing. My own breath was ragged, my pulse deafening in my ears. I stayed there for a second, kneeling over him, my hands curled into fists, blood—his, mine, didn’t matter—coating my skin.
I pushed back onto my heels, still straddling the body, my body vibrating with the force of what I’d just done. Slowly, I exhaled, flexing my fingers, my joints stiff.
My pulse pounded, a sharp, erratic beat. My ribs ached. My side burned. The copper scent of blood stuck in my throat.
Finally, I turned to look at her.
She stood on unsteady feet, one hand pressed against her throat. A bruise was already forming along her jawline, an angry red mark wrapping around her throat.
I had no idea what to say. She should have been looking at me like I was a monster, but she wasn’t.
Her gaze was level, steady.
But there was a moment—a flicker—where her eyes drifted to my hands and her fingers twitched at her side. Her gaze lingered on my skin, then it shifted to the dead man.
To the blood there. To the damage.
The air between us stretched tight, charged with something I didn’t have words for.
Her breath was shallow. Mine labored. My heart was beating so fast, I felt like I could hear it pulsing hammering in my ears.
His body wasn’t moving anymore. No last gasps, no twitches. Just stillness.
Ruby was right. He was dead.
And then, her voice. I was glad she spoke first, I was sure if I had, my voice would be shaking.
“You’re bleeding,” she said. “Are you okay?”