Chapter 30
ROXIE
As we leave the room, I don’t remember walking, only moving fast with Chance’s hand firm around mine as he hustles me down the hallway. It feels like any sound will make something awful happen faster, so I try to control my breathing and fail miserably.
My heart hammers, my palms are slick, but Chance moves like he’s carved from ice showing that he’s focused, controlled, and terrifyingly calm.
The downstairs office door slams behind us. Dillon locks it, crosses the room in two long strides, and shoves the bookcase against the far wall. The hidden panel clicks, and the narrow metal door behind it slides open with a faint, hydraulic hiss.
When I saw it the first time, I joked about how it’s very Doomsday Prepper Chic, but now it feels like jaws swallowing me whole. Chance turns to me, his hands coming to my shoulders and gripping them tight.
“Remember what you promised us, Rox,” he says, his voice serious but unafraid. “Do exactly what we said. You get inside and you stay there. No heroics. No leaving. No exceptions.”
I nod, but my throat is already closing up.
Chance’s large, hot palm moves to my cheek, drawing me out of my momentary terror, and when I refocus on him, he smiles, leaning closer and letting his lips brush mine.
Soft at first, then my lips part and his tongue strokes into my mouth, the kiss deepening until it feels like he’s trying to brand the memory into both of us.
I go up on my tiptoes, leaning into him and kissing him back with everything I have, silently begging him not to take any unnecessary risks. Finally, someone clears their throat beside us, and Chance slows the kiss and pulls away.
“I’ll come back for you,” he whispers. “I promise.”
I nod, pretending to believe him, but right now, promises feel as fragile as glass. Neither of us knows what’s coming our way.
Chance steps back, those eyes intent on mine for another beat before he turns. His sharp features fall into shadow as his hands curl into fists at his sides, muscles bunching under his shirt.
Dillon steals my attention from Chance’s retreating form when he kisses my cheek, quick, playful, softer than he’s ever touched me. “The door locks from the inside. You’ll see the feeds. We’ll keep these assholes away from you.”
He sends me a smirk that lacks his usual confidence, but I don’t let on that I notice. “Hey, try to have some fun in there, okay? We plan on putting on a good show for you and there are snacks. If I’m not mistaken, there may even be popcorn.”
I chuckle softly, lifting my hand to rake it through his sandy hair as I take a step closer to him, not missing the way he leans his head into my touch. “Be safe out there, please. Follow Chance’s lead and look out for one another.”
“We always do,” Boone answers while stepping in and giving kissing my temple. “The all-clear code is ‘Miracle.’” He looks intently into my eyes. “Do not open that door for anyone or anything until you hear one of us give that code.”
My eyebrows lift. “Miracle?”
He nods once. “It’s what we’ve started calling the babies.”
That one sentence nearly takes me down. I’m barely even ten weeks along, and the real miracle is that all three men love these tiny people-to-be like they already have names, faces, and whole futures to protect.
Chance strides back over to us. He motions me backward until I’m inside the safe room, then hits the panel without another word.
Immediately, the door starts moving, sealing me in with a heavy thud and cutting off every sight and sound from outside. The world shrinks to steel walls, recycled air, and four monitors showing the house from different angles.
My hands shake as I stare at the screens, but already, my men are moving like they were born for this. Boone strides through the living room with his shoulders squared and his jaw locked.
Controlled. Efficient. A fighter who knows exactly how much violence it takes to end this threat.
Chance crouches behind the kitchen island, checking sight lines from every window with a cold, stoic kind of detachment.
Dillon scans the cameras on his tablet, muttering but focused. He looks like he’s gearing up to play some high-stakes video game he fully intends to win.
A few minutes later, I sit down in front of the bank of monitors, one hand pressed to my stomach, the other braced against the table as I lean forward. Five attackers appear on one of the screens, approaching through the trees with their tactical gear dark against the snow.
When the first window shatters, I flinch so hard I nearly fall off the chair. Boone is in motion practically in the same second, lunging, pivoting, and slamming the attacker into the wall with brutal precision.
He disarms him in seconds and takes him down with a strike that makes my stomach turn. I’ve never seen him fight before, and I haven’t even looked up any of his old videos, but just that one move makes it absolutely crystal clear why he’s still widely hailed as one of the best in the Hall of Fame.
Chance fires at the second man the instant he appears in the open window, one clean shot to the leg. Disabling, but not deadly. Even in the chaos, it looks like he remembers the lines he doesn’t want to cross.
Pride swells in my chest even though my lungs burn, watching it all happen on a screen I can’t reach through. Three more men burst through the patio doors and glass explodes across the hardwood.
Dillon drops behind the dining table, a surprisingly competent soldier as he fires controlled shots.
Chance is pinned behind the couch.
Bullets tear through the cushions and he dives behind the armchair just in time, cursing.
My men are fighting for their lives and for our babies. For me. And all I’m doing is sitting in a reinforced box, praying the door holds.
But then I see him.
A sixth attacker I missed on the monitors moves like a shadow behind Boone, quiet and deliberate. His rifle lifts, aimed at the back of Boone’s skull, and my body doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait for my brain to catch up.
I’m in motion, slamming the emergency release without even thinking. The door hisses open and I don’t hesitate or even pause long enough to be afraid. I just move.
My bare feet smack against the hallway floor as I snatch the fireplace poker from the stand by the door, the metal cold enough to sting my palm but not even that snaps me out of it. I sprint into the living room just as the man’s finger tightens on the trigger.
I swing with everything I have.
The poker crashes into his shoulders with a sickening crack and his gun fires upward, the shot going wide, the bullet burying itself in the ceiling instead of my boyfriend’s brain. Boone whirls around, and the second he sees me, he goes white.
White with fear. With fury. With the realization that I’ve broken the one rule they gave me.
But the attacker is staggering from my blow. Boone doesn’t give him a chance to recover, moving faster than my eyes can track as he lifts his gun and fires one clean, furious shot straight into the man’s shoulder.
He crumples, his weapon skidding across the floor. I blink hard, caught between awe and stunned disbelief at how fast this is all happening. It seems impossible but I don’t even have time to exhale the breath I’ve been holding before Chance is on me.
He grabs me by the arms, hauling me closer so hard that my toes barely brush the floor. His face is all ice, fury, and absolute terror. I’ve never seen him like this.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps. “You’re supposed to be in the safe room, Roxie.”
“I… Boone… he…” My brain suddenly stutters, adrenaline coursing through me so intense it rattles my bones. “He didn’t see the guy. I couldn’t just watch him die.”
Chance’s jaw clenches hard. “You were supposed to keep yourself and the babies safe. That was the only rule.”
“I won’t apologize for saving him,” I shoot back, my voice cracking and my chin lifting.
His nostrils flare, but under the fury is something else. Something a lot more raw. He doesn’t get the chance to say whatever is about to rip out of him because Dillon shouts from upstairs, “Chance! Behind you!”
Chance spins in what can only be a mash-up of instinct, muscle memory, and pure training. I feel him move before I even see the man in the doorway, his rifle already raised. Chance’s gun is up too, the man already in his sights, but he’s just a fraction of a second too late.
The sound of a gunshot shatters the air, a punch of force that slams through Chance’s upper arm. He grunts, his body jolting backward.
A scream rips out of me before I can stop it, but he doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even hesitate. He just shoves me behind him with his good arm, lifts his weapon with the injured one, and, ignoring the blood running down to his elbow, fires two controlled shots that drop the attacker instantly.
Somehow, he stays standing through it all, shielding me without even making it look like he’s trying.
“Clear!” Dillon’s voice echoes down the stairs only a beat later, breathless and loud. “All hostiles down. Law enforcement ETA ten minutes!”
Boone is suddenly there with us again, grabbing me in both arms and crushing me against his chest like he needs physical proof that I’m alive.
“Jesus, Roxie,” he whispers, breath shaky against my hair. “You can’t… don’t ever… God, you scared me.”
Dillon comes jogging down the stairs, his weapon still raised as he scans the room like he doesn’t trust the quiet. Finally, his shoulders sag and he lowers the gun, then his gaze zeroes in on Chance.
“You good?” he asks, though the measured calm in his voice says he isn’t worried because he already knows the answer.
“Yeah,” Chance mutters through clenched teeth. “It hurts like a bitch, but I’m not about to pass out.”
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder with every passing second. Boone presses his face to my forehead. Dillon lets out a long exhale and leans heavily on the banister. Chance finally sinks down on the ruined couch, clutching his bleeding arm.
I just stand there, trembling in Boone’s arms, until the door crashes open not long after. Uniforms burst inside, spilling everywhere like ants poured out of a jar, their guns raised until Dillon calls out the all-clear.
Voices reach my ears and the sound of heavy footsteps, orders being shouted, EMT bags hitting the floor, but it’s all a blur. Behind them all, a woman in an FBI windbreaker strides into the living room and takes in the scene with one practiced, sweeping glance.
She pauses at the broken windows and the bodies, surveys at least two dozen bullet holes, then nods like she’s been expecting exactly this level of chaos.
“I’m Agent Sarah Mitchell,” she says briskly as she strides over, pulling a pair of gloves out of her pocket and snapping them on after shaking our hands. “Good news. We got Caruso. He landed two hours ago. SWAT picked him up with fifteen of his top associates before he even cleared baggage claim.”
Boone’s eyebrows arch. Chance frowns. Dillon grins like we’ve won the lottery, but Sarah continues, flipping open a tablet.
“These guys you’ve got here were sent ahead before the main operation was due to commence.
They’re facing federal charges. Attempted murder and conspiracy at the very least. It’s over, guys. ”
Over.
The word hits me like a collapsing roof, but it isn’t over. Not as far as I’m concerned. She mentions everyone except one. “What about Tessa?” I ask. “Was she involved after all?”
Agent Mitchell nods, not softening in the least. “We’ve got her, too. She’ll be charged as an accessory, and we’ve got enough to convict. She won’t see freedom for a very long time.”
My knees buckle, but Boone catches me before I hit the floor. Sarah reaches out and squeezes my arm, sending me what I guess is supposed to be a comforting smile before she turns around and starts barking orders at her subordinates.
The next five minutes is a flutter of activity. Paramedics taking my blood pressure and shining a light in my eyes. I finally wave him away and tell him I’m not hurt.
“It’s a through-and-through,” the paramedic next to Chance adds. “You got lucky.”
It turns out Dillon has a few bruises, and Boone picked up a cut along his forearm he doesn’t even notice. Then, almost as quickly as they came, everyone leaves. Tape goes up, and Sarah tells us they’ll be back tomorrow. Then the house is quiet again.
A couple of uniformed officers remain behind, but I barely even notice them as I turn to survey the carnage. Glass glitters across the floors, and the couch is a shredded corpse.
Two bullet holes mark the doorway like punctuation marks to the worst sentence ever written. Boone sinks to the floor, and Dillon slides down the wall beside him, while Chance sits on the arm of the ruined couch, his bandaged arm resting in his lap.
He looks at me properly for the first time since the shooting stops, his voice ragged and a little hoarse. “You are never leaving my sight again.”
I let out a shaky, tired laugh. “Overprotective much?”
“Absolutely,” he replies without a single hint of apology. “Life is going to be boring from now on. I’m talking aggressively boring. Painfully boring, and I’m gonna love every minute of it.”
Dillon snorts. Boone laughs, and I sag down on the floor between them. Exhausted, aching, and still shaking, I let all three of them pull me in for a group hug.
We’re alive. The babies are safe. And the men I love survive a nightmare just to give us all the future we so desperately want.
“Boring sounds utterly fucking perfect to me,” I finally murmur, resting my head against Dillon’s shoulder while Chance wraps an arm around my waist. “Seriously. I can’t wait. What do you guys say we start living that way right now?”