Chapter 35
DANE
" Y ou used Lila as bait," I say, the words falling like stones in the silent room. My gun remains trained on Claire, though Brian's final dying gurgles pull at my attention. He's almost gone, another minute, maybe two.
Claire's lips curl into something approximating a smile. "Because you killed my brother."
The accusation hangs in the air. I search her face, hunting for familiarity, finding none. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Rhys Chambers," she says, the name delivered like a bullet.
Something cold swims through my veins. Rhys Chambers, her brother?
"That's impossible," I say, a dry laugh escaping my throat. "I ran your background before taking your case. Standard procedure."
But even as the words leave my mouth, I realize the truth.
"You doctored your background," I mutter, pieces clicking into place as I understand how badly I've been played.
Claire's eyes gleam with cold satisfaction. "Money buys excellent hackers. Far better than your little friend Milo."
Rhys Chambers. The name echoes in my head, dredging up memories I'd locked away, a predator who hunted young models. Two girls disappeared. One body found, but no evidence. I tracked him, caught him in the act and confronted him, and when he pulled a knife...
I took down a monster only to find myself trapped in his sister's revenge scheme. No good deed goes unpunished.
My stomach churns as I stare at Claire, her face a marble mask while her husband exhales his last breath. The family resemblance hits me now. Those same dead eyes Rhys had when I confronted him. That same emptiness.
"You're all the same," I mutter, disgust coating my words. "A whole fucking family of predators."
Claire tilts her head. "Brian was the artist. Rhys preferred the chase. I... appreciate the logistics."
Jesus Christ.
"So what? You were just the cleanup crew? The one who made the bodies disappear?" I tighten my grip on the gun as bile rises in my throat. "Or did you watch?"
Something flickers in her eyes—excitement, arousal?—that answers my question more clearly than words could. Apparently, this fucking twisted world doesn't just create monsters, it breeds them in matching sets.
"You're worse than they were," I say, my voice deadly quiet. "They were broken, but you... you enabled them. Made their hunting grounds safe."
Lila stands to the side, her face pale but her eyes burning with understanding. She's seeing the truth I've always known… evil doesn't always wear a tie. Sometimes it wears jewelry and heels and calls itself a dutiful wife.
Claire's eyes lock onto Lila, narrowing with contempt. She laughs, a hollow, broken sound that scrapes against the walls.
"You fell for this pathetic creature, didn't you?" Her voice drips with disdain as she gestures toward Lila with a manicured hand. "What a disappointment."
Something shifts in Claire's face—the mask of control fracturing, revealing the rage beneath. Her features contort, twisting into something primal and unhinged.
"You were supposed to feel the pain I felt when you took Rhys from me," she spits, her face going red with rage.
I keep my gun steady, a bitter smile forming on my lips. The universe's cosmic joke gets better by the minute. Claire orchestrated this whole thing not just for revenge, but to make me suffer a specific kind of loss. To watch someone I care about die. Poetic justice from a twisted mind.
"That's the difference between us, Claire," I say, my voice low and even. "I didn't enjoy killing your brother. It was necessary, like putting down a sick animal. But you..." I shake my head. "You got off on this whole elaborate game. And now you think you're a victim. Who's pathetic?"
I hear them before I see them: boots on polished floor, coming hard and fast. Three seconds tops.
Claire's face transforms, evil blooming across it like a time-lapse of something rotting. That smile… she knows the cavalry's coming. She called them.
"Get down!" I roar at Lila, lunging toward her as a man runs in with weapons already up. Two more staying outside. These aren't rent-a-cops. These are professional hitters from the look of them.
I throw myself over Lila as the first rounds hit the wall, feeling her collapse beneath me. My body becomes her shield, my back exposed to whatever's coming. It's instinct, not heroism, though the line between the two is probably thinner than most people think.
A bullet punches into my shoulder, a white-hot brand of pain that makes my vision swim.
My blood spatters across Lila's face as I press her down, keeping my weight on my good arm.
Behind us, Brian's corpse takes a round meant for me.
It's only in death that the bastard finally does something useful.
Through the chaos, I catch Claire slipping out the back door—a shadow vanishing into shadows. The bitch planned this all along. Of course she did.
"Stay down," I hiss to Lila, gritting my teeth against the molten agony spreading through my shoulder. Each heartbeat pumps more blood out, each breath costs more than the last.
The gunmen adjusts his aim, and in that split-second recalculation, I see my opening. Maybe it's the military training, maybe it's just the clarity that comes when death's breathing down your neck, but time slows as I raise my weapon with my good arm.
We lock eyes, him and me, that moment of mutual recognition between professionals. I'm bleeding out over the woman I'm falling for, and he's just doing a job. Nothing personal.
I squeeze the trigger anyway.
My shot catches the gunman center mass. He drops like a sack of meat, his weapon clattering across the floor.
I allow myself half a second of satisfaction before reality crashes back in.
My shoulder's on fire, Lila's trembling beneath me, there are more men outside, and Brian Langford's cooling corpse is our only company in this fucked-up tableau.
"We need to move," I whisper to Lila.
I try to push myself up, but my left arm refuses to cooperate, just dead weight hanging from my shoulder socket. Blood soaks my shirt, running warm down my side. Physics becomes negotiable when you're operating on pure adrenaline and spite.
"Dane, you're—" Lila's eyes widen, fixed on something behind me.
The doorway fills with two more silhouettes—bigger and meaner than the first guy. The world narrows to simple math: two guys, one gun, fourteen bullets left in this magazine, and fuck-all chance of walking away.
I roll off Lila, shoving her under the conference table with my good arm. "Stay there!"
Pain explodes as my wounded shoulder hits the floor, but it buys me the angle I need. I fire from my back. One, two shots at the guy on the left. He jerks backward but doesn't fall. Not yet.
The second guy opens fire, bullets splintering the wood above Lila's head. I nearly empty my magazine in his direction, not bothering to aim properly, just trying to keep them distracted long enough to think.
I'm down to three rounds when the first guy finally crumples, my lucky shot finding the gap in his body armor at the armpit. He falls with an expression of mild surprise, like he's just realized he left his keys at home.
"Two down," I mutter through gritted teeth.
My vision swims as blood loss starts catching up with my bravado. The shoulder wound's bad, but manageable. What's concerning is the second hit I didn't even feel, a hot slice across my side that's leaking steadily. Shock's a hell of an anesthetic.
The second guy has better training. He's using cover, making himself a smaller target. Smart. Annoying.
"Dane!" Lila's voice comes from beneath the table. Terrified.
I haul myself to my feet, blood seeping through my fingers where I'm clutching my side. The world tilts and steadies, tilts and steadies. My body's running on fumes and fury now.
"Dane, don't!" Lila hisses from under the table.
I shoot her a look that says everything I can't waste breath saying. This ends now. Here's the problem with happiness, the second you taste it, the universe starts calculating what it'll cost you. But I won't let anyone hurt Lila, especially when I'm to blame.
"Stay down," I mutter, stumbling forward. My boots leave bloody footprints on the floor.
My every sense sharpens. The metallic tang of blood in my mouth. The burn of torn muscle. The weight of the gun, suddenly as natural as my own pulse.
I advance toward the door, my shadow stretched long behind me. The remaining gunman will expect me to be tactical, to use cover.
Instead, I walk straight at him.
He peeks around the doorframe, eyes widening when he sees me coming like death itself. We fire simultaneously, his bullet tearing through my thigh as mine finds its mark in his neck, right above his vest.
The universe and I are finally even.
He drops his weapon, hands clutching at the wound. I watch the life drain from his eyes with a detachment that should probably concern me. Death always looks the same: surprised, then empty.
"Clear," I rasp, though there's no one to hear the call except Lila.
The room tilts sideways as I try to remain on my feet. Gravity insists, and I fall.
"Don't move!" Lila scrambles toward me, her hands immediately pressing against my side. "You're bleeding everywhere."
"That's... generally what happens when you get shot." I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
She's talking about pressure and ambulances, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands as she grabs her phone. Something about that steadiness in crisis, it's beautiful in its own fucked-up way.
"You know," I mumble as darkness starts creeping in from the edges of my vision, "first time I saw you, I thought you were just another pretty face with sad eyes."
"And now?" Her face hovers above mine, fierce and determined.
"Now I think..." The words get lost somewhere between my brain and my mouth as the ceiling starts to spin. "Now I think I'm gonna pass out."
The last thing I see is Lila's face, streaked with my blood but unbroken. Strong. Then nothing but darkness.