Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
brIDGET
Declan is outside my window. Declan and my guards, of course.
Cavin’s decided that I need a guard with me at all times. Part of me wonders if Declan had something to do with that too. So when I go downstairs in yoga pants, one of the men standing outside looks at me.
“Going somewhere? At night?”
“You don't have to follow.”
“I'm not allowed to let you go without—”
“I've got her.” Declan is standing on the far side of the car, one hand on the door. He narrows his eyes. “McGovern. You tell anyone about this, and I'll fucking kill you.”
God, why is he so hot?
McGovern clears his throat. “But the trackers, sir—”
“I'll message Cavin myself.”
McGovern takes a seat on the front step, with the long-suffering look of a man who has learned to pick his battles, and I slide into the passenger seat. Every time I do, it feels like sand dropping through an hourglass.
He’s going to be married. My best friend is going to be married. I’m going to watch it happen firsthand, and I will smile because I love him enough to give him that. I know this. I’ve known it for months, but I’m still getting in the car.
“I reckon Cavin knows more than he lets on,” I say.
Declan sighs. “He was the one who told me you hadn't gone to the doctor yet, woman.”
“I did contact him though.”
I shrink in my seat. I did send the message. I just don’t tell him I got an automated response back that Dr. Rosenberg is on holiday for the next week.
I'll go, just not now. Telling Declan might ruin a good man's vacation because he's kind of like that. Absurdly, terrifyingly overprotective.
I have no idea why I asked him to come. This is the worst form of torture. I reach for my necklace, but I forgot it. Nooo. I try not to think of that as an omen.
He squeezes my knee. “Lickety Split?”
“Is there any other?”
I haven't been hungry today. I don't tell him I vomited up breakfast and that lunch was a handful of dry crackers. Even water is making me nauseous, so I'm definitely dehydrated. “I'm feeling really good right now,” I say instead. “Vanilla gelato.”
He looks at me curiously. “No chocolate?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Chocolate sounds terrible right now.”
“You are sick,” he says, shaking his head as he puts his hand to my forehead in a gesture that’s meant to be teasing but is so unintentionally sweet my eyes go a little blurry. He’s right. I hate vanilla.
I’m sure he meant it to tease, but I stifle a flinch I’m glad he doesn’t notice.
He parks, shrugs out of his suit jacket and throws it in the back, unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt, and sighs—one of those deep, bone-tired sighs that seems to go all the way to his toes.
“Aw, Dec. You look tired. You need this as much as I do. How's Valentina?” I ask, trying to be polite. Trying to be a good friend.
He makes a face. “She doesn't eat mammals, Bridget.”
I blink. “There are loads of vegetarians, Declan. I used to have a friend—”
“No, she's not a vegetarian. It's some poultry thing. Something about ascension. I don't know.” He waves his hand.
“Oh.” I consider this. “She's very pretty though.”
He gives me the look—the one that says, Are you serious right now?—without his mouth having to do any of the work. I hold his gaze.
Because I am serious. It's fine. He can be with a very pretty woman who doesn't eat mammals. That's fine.
“So how are you doing? Other than being—you?”
“Grand. Passing the time. You?”
“Reading a delicious werewolf romance.”
He stares. “A what?”
“Werewolf romance. They turn into wolves. They're strong and powerful and—” I pause. “It’s, uh, kinky.”
He makes a strangled sort of noise. “Kinky. Werewolves.”
“Says the man who introduced me to the world of kink.” I reach across the counter because they've just put our order up, and the sight of that gelato does something genuinely emotional to me. My stomach growls. This is going to be extraordinary.
“I asked for triple whipped cream,” I say as we take our cups outside.
“Who the fuck asks for triple whipped cream?” a voice says behind us.
I turn. A big guy in a hooded black sweatshirt is looking at me like the question was aimed at me personally.
And Declan goes very, very still. It’s not the way he stills when he’s angry or worried. There’s a difference, and I don’t know why. His hand found my elbow before I’d even turned around, like he already knew what was behind us.
Oh no.
He stands to his full height, which is usually enough. Whoever it is usually clocks who they're dealing with and finds somewhere else to be.
“Look at her. Acting like a fucking child,” the guy says to his mate.
What the hell?
Declan steps in front of me, but he doesn’t look at the man’s face. His eyes are moving, slow, deliberate, as if he already knows who this is and where this is going.
“Watch your fucking mouth.” His voice is a low, even growl. “Don't talk to her that way.”
“Yeah?” The man squares up. “You gonna do something about it?”
Oh no. Oh god. Does this man not know who he's talking to?
Declan's eyes go flat and cold in that particular way that means all the warmth in him has been set aside for later.
“I don't want to get into this tonight, brother, not here,” he says. “Walk away now. I won't repeat myself.”
I have never heard him talk to anyone like that before, as if it isn't a threat but a courtesy. Like he's doing the man a favor by warning him at all.
“Nah,” the guy says, getting in Declan's face. “Not really in the mood.”
No, no, no, no.
“Declan, leave it,” I whisper, because my nerves are frayed and this isn't going to end well, even though I know there’s no way he’s going to walk away and leave it.
“Declan?” The man says it flat, not a question. He knows him.
That's when I see them.
Four men. Not close—positioned deliberately, spread across the street and at the mouth of the alley opposite, far enough back that running wouldn't help.
Far enough back that there's nowhere to go.
One behind a parked van. One in a doorway.
Two more materializing from between cars, unhurried, like they've been waiting all evening. Weapons already raised.
This was never a chance encounter. He knew that man. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.
This is no accident.
“Leave him alone!” I shout, because I don't know what else to do.
Declan moves before I finish the sentence.
He grabs the edge of the bistro table and flips it—solid iron top, scraping concrete—and shoves me behind it in one motion, using his own body to finish the job.
Then he wheels and takes the big man down hard, fast, no ceremony, and the crack of it turns my stomach.
I'm on the ground behind the table, my phone in my shaking hands, and I can't remember picking it up.
“Text Cavin!” I scream, pressing the side button, but my voice comes out wrong—too high, shredded at the edges.
Lickety Split. Emergency. Come now.
“Bridget, move—”
Then the shooting starts from across the street, and Declan's body is over mine, covering me completely, one arm curved around my head, his weight crushing and the only safe thing in the world right now.
I don't know if I've sent it. I don't know if I'm standing or crouching. The world has gone to noise and color and the smell of something I don't have a name for yet.
A black SUV screeches to a stop. Not Cavin—it's too fast, impossible—but McCarthy bodyguards pour out like they were already waiting, like they knew before I did that this was going to happen. Four of them. Six. The doors are still swinging open.
They didn't listen to me or Declan. Thank god they didn't listen to us.
“Weapons down!” one of them bellows, and then the shooting starts in earnest—not a single crack but a wall of sound, overlapping and incessant, the air itself turning violent.
The men who came for us don't scatter. They return fire, methodical, like this is work.
Like we're work and this is exactly what they wanted.
I'm under Declan's body, my face pressed to rough gravel. He's cursing and shooting, and I can't see a damn thing.
But the McCarthys are trained and relentless. The ground between them fills with glass and blood and the wreckage of a perfectly ordinary evening.
Then silence.
Declan is still on top of me. His body is a dead weight across mine, one arm still curved around my shoulders like he meant to pull me down and forgot to let go. The ice cream is everywhere, pink and white, melting against the pavement, already bleeding into something darker.
I know before I touch him.
“Declan.” My hand finds his shoulder and comes away wet. Crimson. The word arrives before the reality does, detached and clinical, and then the reality hits. “Declan, no. No, no—”
I'm on my knees. I don't remember getting there.
“You're alright?” His voice is wrong—too steady, too careful, the voice of a man using the last of his control to sound like he has any. “Are you alright? Tell me you’re okay, Bridget.”
“Stop.” I press both hands flat against the wound, and he makes a sound I will never stop hearing.
“Stop talking. You've been shot. You’ve been—” My voice breaks.
I drag it back together by force. “Call an ambulance.” I look up at the nearest bodyguard—he's reloading, hands completely steady, and I want to scream at the steadiness of him. Don’t they know Declan’s been shot?
Don’t they know my entire world has been fractured into pieces?
“Call a bloody ambulance! Now!” My bodyguard is already on his phone. He strips out of his shirt and crouches down beside me.
“Here,” he says. “Push it on his shoulder. Hold it down. He's bleeding heavily. They might've nicked a fuckin’ artery.”
“An artery—” I swallow down a sob and press the shirt down with both hands. “They came out of nowhere. They were waiting for us. They ambushed him, and they went after me for no reason. He tried to protect me.” A fresh wave of sobs breaks through.
“It's okay now.” Declan's hand finds my wrist. “You're going to be alright. Good job your guard didn't fuckin’ listen and stay back at the house.”