NINETEEN
My jaw clampstightly as concern, rapidly followed by fear, flows through me. This odd text from Theo relaying information from Royal doesn’t explain jack shit. A ripple of anxiety runs through me. Royal wants me to send Wilder or Beckham outside to him. He couldn’t have known I was already out here with Chase, I get that, but why’d he ask for them and not me? And why the fuck would Theo be texting me instead of Royal? My hands grow clammy as I finally spot them and watch their approach, taking in the careful, almost awkward, way Royal is walking. My throat goes dry as possibilities rush through my head. Chewing on my lip, I wonder if it could be as simple as a strained muscle. No. My gut says something is wrong. I can’t tell what yet, and that’s sending me to all sorts of dark places. My heart wants me to run to Royal, but I can’t take Chase with me when I don’t know what’s going on.
The door to the house opens behind me, and I whirl around in time to see both Beckham and Wilder spill onto the porch. Their eyes lock on the Royal in the distance. Wilder lifts a hand, then something he sees makes the color drain from his face. His dark eyes meet mine for a split second, then he’s off, sprinting toward the pair. With my heart in my throat, I scoop Chase up as Beckham joins me. It’s clear he’s torn between staying with me and following Wilder. “Go,” I choke out.
His fiery blue eyes find mine. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.” He presses a quick kiss to the side of my head. “Wait here,” he murmurs, squeezing my shoulder and touching a hand to Chase’s back before turning and taking off toward the other half of my heart. Why didn’t Royal text me himself if there was a problem?
As Beckham reaches them, they stop in the middle of the road, and I can only imagine what’s being said during the urgent conversation among the four men. Royal turns his head to look over here at me, and my lungs cease to function. Now I know I was right not to go over there with Chase. That’s blood running down the side of his father’s face. My chest tightens. How the hell do I handle this?
The door slams shut behind me and, wide-eyed, Kara hurries over to me. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure. Could you take Chase inside so I can go find out?”
“Yeah, of course.” She pauses, a crease forming down the middle of her head. “Is that… is that Theo Jacobs?”
“It is,” I affirm, turning to shift Chase into her waiting arms. “Aunt Kara’s going to take you inside, Chase.”
“No! Want Woyal.” He points a chubby finger directly at the man in question.
Kara gives me a tight-lipped smile, which I read as You owe me, then heads back toward the house, carrying a crying, squirming Chase, who is trying his damnedest to get her to put him down by throwing his full body weight backward in his attempt to escape. Fortunately, Kara has experienced Chase temper tantrums before, and it doesn’t faze her in the slightest.
“Woyal!” Chase sobs, the cry so completely pitiful, it makes me want to break down in tears myself.
At the sound of his name, Royal’s gaze shifts, and he peers over here to see Chase’s little body flailing as he kicks up his efforts a notch. His arms outstretch toward Royal as he cries, and my heart fucking twists into a knot in my chest.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, trying to blink away the moisture in my eyes, and end up squeezing them shut to stem the flow.
My breath catches at the deep gravel of Royal’s voice when he speaks right beside us. “Chase, buddy, I’m right here.” I open my eyes to see him reach for our son, despite the fact that he’s got blood trickling from his hairline, and his shoulder is scraped all to hell. Oh god. Chase is either completely unaffected by it or doesn’t see it, because he practically leaps to Royal’s chest like a monkey and clings there, his tiny body still shuddering with his upset. His daddy holds him close, alternately patting his back and smoothing a hand down the back of his head as he bounces him. “You’re okay. Did you miss me while I was out doing my run, little man?”
Chase nods, picking up his sweaty head from Royal’s equally sweaty chest. He studies Royal, the tears immediately stopping as he cocks his head to the side. Openly curious, he peers at the side of Royal’s face. “Woyal got a boo-boo?” he whispers cautiously. A miniature V forms between his brows.
“I do. Ouch. But I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, I can play in a little bit, because we’re gonna have Wilder fix me right up, okay?” He glances up as Wilder, Beckham, and Theo circle around.
“Otay.” He draws in a deep breath, then lets it go with his entire body.
Kara steps in, patting Chase’s back. “Come on, big guy. I think we should get a popsicle and eat it out back while we wait for Royal. Does that sound good?”
“Yeah!” All traces of his earlier tantrum have fled his mind. Typical toddler. I sigh with relief, silently thanking my sister.
After they’ve gone into the house, my gaze bounces among the guys. “What do I need to know?” My chin wobbles as I get an up-close look at the bloody scrapes on Royal’s shoulder, then gently skim my fingers through the hair at his temple. My gaze pings slowly over the rest of his body, from head to toe.
His eyes search mine, and his face contorts. “I feel sick to have to tell you this. The van. The one we saw while we were at the park… it tried to run us down.”
“Well, him, more specifically, I think.” Theo gives me a little wave and a grim smile. “Hi, Speedy.”
My gaze flicks to our former running coach, my lips twitching at the reminder of his nickname for me. Cautiously, I greet him. “Hi, Theo.”
Theo clears his throat. “You haven’t changed a bit. Good to see you.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Yeah, it’s been a long time. If I have changed, I’m still me.”
He smiles, then glances down at his phone. “Shit. Royal, are you okay if I take off?” He raises his phone, gesturing with it. “Apparently, I’ve got a bartender with questions about a shipment that arrived this morning.”
Royal releases a hard exhale. “Yeah, of course. I’m glad you were there when it happened, I guess, even if it scared the shit out of you. Send me that partial plate, would you?”
“No problem.” Theo draws in a breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I had planned to stick around and catch up for a few minutes, but now isn’t the right time for that.” He turns to Wilder, giving him a narrow stare. “He shows any signs he’s not okay, you’ll get his ass to an ER.” It’s not a question, just a simple statement, which Wilder seems to understand and agree with.
His lips twist, eyeing Royal, his assessing nursing student’s gaze already moving over his friend. “Yeah. I don’t mess around. I’ll take a closer look at him in a sec.” With that, Theo nods and takes off.
I release a pent-up breath, stepping close to Royal and winding my arms around his waist. I let myself touch his warm skin, not giving a flying fuck about the sweat or the blood. The need to feel him, to make sure he’s really standing here with me, is intense. When I consider he could have been run down and seriously injured—or worse—it makes me want to vomit. It’s bad enough he probably has a concussion. I tip my chin up to meet Royal’s gaze, then shift to Wilder’s and Beckham’s in turn. I see plainly their desire to hold back all the things they’re thinking. “Don’t you dare try to shield me. You think this is… what? A warning?”
Before any of them say a fucking word, the vibration of a cell phone goes off, but since we’re all huddled in one spot, I have no idea whose it was.
Royal shifts to reach into his pocket. I wince as he pulls it out. The screen is shattered. “My phone is fucked, but that was definitely a text for me.” He hesitantly tries to get it to function, but as I peek at it with him, it’s a spiderweb of cracks, nearly impossible to see what’s on the screen, and even more difficult to get it to function. “Dammit.”
My attention shifts to Wilder for a moment because the way his eyes scan the area has my skin prickling. His scrutiny tells me he’s nervous there could be a part two to this catastrophe. The muscle in his jaw working, he carefully puts a hand on Royal’s uninjured shoulder, fingers gently squeezing to get his attention. He juts his chin toward the house. “What do you all say we get the fuck inside?”
Beckham puts a comforting arm around my shoulders, leaning in to whisper, “You okay, CJ?”
I draw in a shaky breath but nod and put my arm around his waist. “You?”
“I’m good. Just”—he pauses to heave out a breath as he eyes the pair in front of us as we step into the house—“concerned. I’ll feel better once Wilder makes sure he’s really okay.”
I gaze up into his piercing blue eyes. “Me too.”
Royal grumbles as Wilder leads us to the kitchen, “I can’t fucking tell what this says, but it’s from a goddamn unknown number again.” With that, he tosses the phone onto the table as Wilder pats the back of a chair he’s pulled out at the table. Royal sinks onto it with a grimace of pain.
While our resident nursing student washes his hands at the sink, he catches my eye. “You have medical supplies somewhere?”
“Yep. One sec. We keep stuff in the bathroom down here.” I hurry to where we keep it, and, by the time I return, Wilder is looking carefully into Royal’s eyes, while Royal tracks the movement of his finger.
The patient gets pissier the longer the examination goes on, which makes Beckham wince and throw out a hand in frustration. “Let Nurse Wilder look you over, man. You could have a concussion. You’re bleeding from the head, for Christ’s sake.”
“You know, we could have gone to the hospital or an emergi-care type place,” Wilder breathes out, his tone even. He’s obviously a total professional when the need arises.
After several seconds of quiet, Royal rasps, “I didn’t want to go anywhere else. I wanted you,” his chest heaving with the admission. They continue to stare at each other even though Wilder is clearly done checking Royal’s pupils.
It makes my heart flip. My eyes trail over to Beckham, who is also looking on with interest. He’s trying hard to hide it, but to me, his worry for Royal is evident. He’s antsy as hell, watching every move Wilder makes and every subsequent reaction from Royal. The inspection of the abrasion on his scalp is the worst of it, and I can’t help but suck in a sharp breath. My cheeks flush. “Sorry. What else do you need?”
“I could use some washcloths, if you have them.” He eyes Royal’s shoulder. “And I think we need to move to the sink so I have running water. I’ll irrigate this as best I can to get rid of road debris. Hopefully, we can deal with this on our own.”
Royal bites his lip. “I trust you.”
Wilder nods, humming to himself as we shift closer to the sink. Beckham plants himself on the kitchen island—out of the way but watching—while I set the medical supplies down and step out of the way. I find after a minute or so of pained gasps from Royal and apologies from Wilder that I can’t be right there, so I wander over to the table to sit down.
It’s not long before the temptation of the busted phone grabs my attention. I pick it up, sliding my finger over the screen, half afraid I’m going to slice my finger open. Oh well. We’ve got Wilder here to patch me up if that happens. Tucking the corner of my lip between my teeth, I chew on it absently while I attempt to open it.
On the eighth try, it works. “Royal. Quick, what’s your passcode?”
“0-1-2-8-0-4,” he grits out from between a clenched jaw. “Wait, did you get it to open?”
My birthday. A warmth explodes in my chest, and all I can do is mumble, “Yeah.” I’m too busy trying to access the text to comment on his passcode. When I’m finally successful, I almost wish we could remain completely oblivious. “Shit,” I murmur under my breath.
Beckham has come over to join me, reading over my shoulder. “Wait, what’s that word?”
“‘You should have listened’ is what the text reads.” I swallow, my eyes darting to Wilder, who’s looked up from working on Royal’s shoulder.
Royal doesn’t turn, but his grip on the countertop is making his knuckles turn white, and I don’t think it’s because he’s in all that much pain. “Go back to SIN. Fine. We do. People are fucking murdered. What were we going to do? Check into a goddamn hotel like it’s a vacation? We’ve got a baby here. If whoever sent that—whoever’s taunting us, whoever’s trying to hurt us—thinks they’re going to control where we stay and what we do, they’re sadly fucking mistaken,” he barks, his voice rising and turning lethal.
“Fucking right.” Beckham’s jaw is twitching as he hops off the counter and motions for me to come to him. I move directly into his arms. “They wanna come for us. We’ll be fucking waiting.”
Wilder stares out the window over the sink, and a feeling of safety washes over me as I realize his eyes are on Chase. Exhaling hard, he finally turns his head, making sure his gaze connects with each of ours before rasping out, “We protect what’s ours.”