Chapter 42 Luke
Luke
He saw it too late to cry out a warning.
A man behind her—too close, too fast.
He could only watch as Grace was jerked backward, sudden and wrong.
For a fraction of a second, the world slowed so violently it felt like it stopped.
Luke’s heart seemed to stop, too.
Then it slammed back into motion, hard and punishing, adrenaline flooding his system so fast it made his vision sharpen and narrow all at once.
No.
No, no, no—
Rourke.
His body moved before his mind caught up.
Luke dropped the microphone and vaulted off the edge of the stage. The impact jarred up his legs, but he didn’t slow. He barely registered it. He was already running.
The crowd blurred.
Faces. Bodies. Color and noise and chaos.
He didn’t care about any of that. He only cared about one thing.
Grace. Grace. Grace.
The crowd was in his way. “Move!” His voice tore out of him, raw and feral.
Kids were screaming now. Parents were hauling them backward. Someone yelled for the police like he wasn’t already there, like he wasn’t tearing through the middle of the square with his lungs burning and his pulse hammering in his ears.
Training screamed at him to slow down. Assess. Call it in. Wait for backup.
He ignored it.
Every second was too long. Every step felt too slow.
He shoved through a knot of people, shouldering the adults aside, barely noticing the impact. His hands shook with the force of the adrenaline dump, fingers flexing and curling like they wanted something to hit.
Grace’s face was pale, her eyes wide. Her feet scrambling. Her body twisting.
Rourke's arm was locked around her, dragging her backwards — and the flash of metal at her ribs stopped Luke's heart cold.
There was something sharp and vicious in Luke’s chest, a living thing clawing its way up his throat. Fear. Fear like he’d never experienced before.
What if he was too late?
What if—
This wasn’t cop fear. This wasn’t procedure or liability or aftermath.
She had a knife at her ribs. One wrong move—hers, his, anyone's—and—
He couldn't finish the thought.
This was animal terror.
If Rourke hurt her…
If Luke didn’t reach her in time…
He pushed harder, legs pumping, lungs on fire now, vision tunneled so tightly the rest of the world barely existed.
Twenty feet.
Ten.
He could hear Rourke’s voice now—angry, snarling, words slurred together with rage. He didn’t care what he was saying.
All Luke could see was Grace.
There was only Grace. And Rourke.
He forced himself to concentrate on the threat instead of the woman he loved.
He had her pulled tight against him, one arm locked around her middle — the knife pressed flat against her ribs, close enough that Luke could see exactly how little margin there was — the other hand clamped over her mouth.
She was upright, but barely—weight pitched wrong, breath shallow, her body held in a way that made Luke acutely aware of how little room she had to move.
Every muscle in Luke’s body coiled.
“Let her go.”
The words came out low. Deadly. They didn’t sound like him. They didn’t sound like a cop.
Rourke peeled his hand away from Grace’s mouth and pointed at Luke.
“Stay out of it, homecoming king,” Rourke said. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said flatly.
Everything about Grace concerned him.
She was his. Had been his since the first time she'd laughed at something he said and made him feel like maybe he was worth more than his badge and his status in town.
He’d fucked that up, he’d hurt her. But now and for the rest of his life, he was going to protect her instead.
Starting here and now. He was going to save her. He was going to—
“Luke.” She didn’t sound scared. Why didn’t she sound scared? Luke was terrified.
“Grace, baby,” he said, without looking at her, “it’s going to be okay.”
“Don’t you want to know my answer?” She asked, sounding calm. So calm.
Now he looked at her. Her answer?
Yes, he wanted to know her answer. But not like this. Not while she was in danger. Not while every second she stayed in Rourke's grip was another second Luke's world balanced on a knife's edge.
He wanted her answer. But he needed her safe.
“Stop talking to him,” Rourke snapped.
Grace didn’t seem to care that Rourke had her. She was being reckless. Reckless with her own safety.
“Grace,” Luke said, sharper now, fear edging into anger, “we can talk about this later, baby.”
“I want somewhere fancy,” she said. “I want you to pick me up. I want you to have flowers.”
Luke’s mind tried—and failed—to hold all of it at once.
She was distracting him and he needed to keep her safe—
He couldn’t look away from her gaze.
“Grace,” he said, voice barely under control now, “I need you to focus.”
“I am focussed.” Her eyes never left his. “On you. On us.”
She smiled. God, she was so beautiful when she smiled. Luke could barely stand it.
“You’re going to get me out of this,” she said, like she was stating the weather. “And then you’re going to take me out to dinner.”
The adrenaline was flooding his body. He couldn’t—
“I trust you,” Grace said. “I trust you with my life. And with my heart.”
Something cracked wide open in his chest.
Joy.
Pure, brilliant, impossible joy.
"Grace—" Her name came out wrecked.
Rourke snarled, his grip tightening as his patience finally snapped. “I said shut up—”
Grace moved.
She shifted her weight. Brought her heel down hard on the top of Rourke’s foot.
The move he’d shown her.
Rourke’s grip loosened. The blade dipped. It was the opening he needed.
Luke surged forward, one arm hooking Grace’s waist, wrenching her out of Rourke’s grip as the man howled and stumbled backward. Grace was suddenly against him, solid and real, and Luke put his body between her and the threat in a single fluid motion.