Chapter 12
MIRA
The grocery store parking lot is nearly empty at nine PM on a weeknight.
My vehicle sits in the back corner where I parked it, under a flickering streetlight that should've been replaced months ago.
Keys already in my hand as I approach, grocery bag hanging from my elbow with the bare essentials I need.
Footsteps behind me. Too close, too fast.
Training from the self-defense class I took after Todd kicks in before conscious thought processes the threat. I spin, bag dropping, hand already reaching for the pepper spray on my keychain.
Richard Sullivan, David's brother, grabs my wrist before I can deploy it.
"You stupid bitch." His face twists with rage, eyes wild. "You couldn't leave it alone. Had to keep digging. Had to ruin everything."
I drive my knee up hard into his groin. He doubles over with a choked gasp, grip on my wrist loosening just enough for me to yank free. Pepper spray comes up, thumb finding the trigger, stream hitting him directly in the face.
Sullivan screams. His hands fly to his eyes, causes him to stumble backwards. I don't wait to see if he recovers. Muscle memory takes over—pivot, chamber the leg, drive my heel into his knee with every ounce of force I possess.
Something cracks. Not bone-breaking loud, but enough. Sullivan goes down hard, hitting asphalt with an impact that sounds painful even through the adrenaline roaring in my ears.
"Stay down." My voice comes out steadier than expected, pepper spray still aimed at his face. "Don't get up. Don't follow me. Don't ever come near me again."
He writhes on the ground, hands still covering his streaming eyes, knee bent at an angle that suggests ligament damage. The groaning sounds mix with cursing, but he's not getting up anytime soon.
I should call the police. Report the assault. Get this documented properly with official channels and criminal charges and restraining orders that mean something.
I don't.
Calling the police means waiting here while they respond. It means giving statements. It means Sullivan learning exactly where I'm staying, who I'm with, details he could use later when rage overrides self-preservation.
It means Shaw finding out someone got close enough to grab me before I could react.
I back toward my car, keeping the pepper spray trained on Sullivan until I'm behind the wheel with the engine running and the doors locked. Only then do my hands start shaking. Only then does the delayed reaction hit hard enough to make breathing difficult.
I drive, following the directions Shaw gave me. Watching mirrors for any vehicle that might be following. Making absolutely certain nobody tracks me back to Shaw's house before I finally pull into his driveway.
Safe.
I sit in the car for several minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles ache.
Adrenaline ebbs slowly, leaving shakiness and the metallic taste of fear coating my tongue.
Sullivan grabbed me. He actually grabbed me in a parking lot, and if I hadn't reacted fast enough, if that self-defense training hadn't kicked in automatically—
No. I won't spiral. I handled it. I used what I knew. I disabled the threat and got myself to safety. That's what matters.
I grab my grocery bag from the passenger seat and head inside.
Shaw stands in the kitchen with a mug in his hand, shoulders rigid. He looks up when I enter, and the look he gives me is pure accusation until he sees my face.
"What happened?"
"Sullivan." One word, and everything spills out. The parking lot. The grab. The knee strike and pepper spray and the satisfying sound of his knee giving way under my heel. "He's probably still lying there. I didn't call the police. I just... I left."
Shaw goes completely still for a beat. Then his jaw locks, tension radiating through his shoulders. When he speaks, his voice is too controlled. Dangerously quiet. "Where?"
"Cascade Shopping Center. Back corner near the dumpsters." I set the groceries on the counter with hands that still want to shake. "I handled it. He won't be following anyone for a while. That knee won't support his weight for weeks at minimum."
"You handled it." He repeats the words like he's tasting them, testing them. His hands flatten on the counter, knuckles white. "You went to the store. Alone. After I told you to stay put until I got back."
My spine straightens. "We needed groceries."
"We needed groceries." The dangerous quiet cracks, voice rising. "Your hotel room was searched and you’ve been threatened. And you decided groceries were worth risking your life?"
"I didn't think—"
"No. You didn't." Shaw pushes off the counter, running both hands through his hair.
Not moving toward me, but the controlled violence simmers just beneath his surface.
"You didn't think about what could've happened if that training hadn't kicked in.
If he'd had a weapon. If he'd gotten you into a vehicle before you could fight back. "
Heat flashes through me—part shame, part defiance. "But he didn't. I disabled him."
"This time." Shaw's eyes lock on mine, and I see fear underneath the anger.
Raw, barely contained fear. "What about next time?
What happens when Sullivan comes at you with a gun instead of his bare hands?
When he's smarter about the approach? You got lucky tonight, Mira. Fucking lucky. And luck runs out."
The words hit harder than I want to admit. He's right. I know he's right. But admitting it feels like giving up the independence I fought to reclaim.
"I'm not helpless," I say, hating how defensive I sound.
"I never said you were." Shaw moves closer now, but stops just outside arm's reach.
His jaw works, tension radiating through his frame. That’s it. The tension is there in his body language, but he's not telegraphing his internal struggle like some emotional trainwreck. He's controlled even when he's barely holding it together—that's what makes him Shaw.
"You proved tonight you can handle yourself in a fight,” he continues. “That's not the point. The point is you shouldn't have been alone in the first place."
"I can't live my life waiting for permission to leave the house."
"That's not what I'm asking." His voice drops back to that dangerous quiet. "I'm asking you to use your goddamn head. To recognize when you're at risk and take basic precautions. Like not going out alone at night when there's a fucking arsonist targeting you specifically."
Silence stretches between us. My pulse pounds in my ears, adrenaline from the attack mixing with the confrontation until I'm shaking again.
Shaw sees it. His expression shifts, anger bleeding into something else. He closes the distance, his hands settling on my shoulders, searching my face for injury or shock. "You okay?"
The switch from fury to concern makes my throat tight. "Shaking. But yes." There's no point lying to Shaw about my state when he reads body language like breathing. "Training kicked in before I could panic. I disabled him. I got out."
"Good girl." His voice drops to that register that makes heat spike through me despite the adrenaline crash.
Not patronizing. Not diminishing what I did.
Just pure approval from someone who understands exactly what it takes to fight when fear wants to freeze you.
But the anger isn't entirely gone—it's still there in the tension of his grip, the tightness around his eyes.
"You did good. But don't do it again. Next time you need something, you tell me.
Or Cole. Or any of the brothers. Someone goes with you. That's not negotiable."
I lean into him, letting his solid presence ground me back in the present instead of replaying those seconds when Sullivan's hand locked around my wrist. Shaw's arms come around me, holding tight enough to feel real, his heartbeat steady against my ear.
"You left him there?" His tone isn't judgmental. It's tactical assessment.
"Calling the police meant waiting. It meant giving him more information he could use." I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "I made the decision that kept me safer."
"Smart." Shaw's hand cups the back of my neck, thumb brushing the tension knotted there.
"But Sullivan went after you directly. That changes things.
It fixes his place at the top of the suspect list, and it means he's not just setting fires anymore—he's targeting you specifically because you're getting close. "
"We're getting close." The correction matters. Partnership matters. "This investigation isn't just mine anymore."
"No. It's not." Possessive edge slides into his tone. "Which means anyone coming after you is coming after me. The Brotherhood protects its own."
My throat tightens. There's a sense of belonging here. The fierce certainty that Shaw's protection doesn't come with conditions or demands that I play helpless. I told him I disabled Sullivan and he called it impressive.
"What now?" I ask.
"Now we figure out why Sullivan's desperate enough to risk a direct assault." Shaw releases me but stays close. "He's escalating because we're getting too close to something. Financial records, maybe. Or connections we haven't identified yet."
I shake off the adrenaline crash and pull my laptop closer. Financial data I've been analyzing all week sits in carefully organized spreadsheets, patterns emerging from transactions and timing that should tell me something useful if I can just see the connection.
"Cascade Services," I say, pulling up their records again. "The cash withdrawals we noticed earlier. They line up with fire dates, but look at this." I highlight a pattern. "Each withdrawal happens exactly six days before a fire. Not a week. Not five days. Six days every single time."
Shaw leans over my shoulder, reading the data. "Planning window. Six days gives time to scout locations, acquire accelerants, set up logistics."