26. Chapter 26
Caroline
I spent the first six hours after the ambush replaying the moment the bullets hit the vehicle.
The glass did not shatter the way it did in movies. It cracked with a dense, splintering crunch that somehow sounded worse than the gunfire. The first impact starred the window near Prime’s shoulder. The second punched into metal.
Then another.
Another.
I remembered Sweet shouting.
Prime returning fire.
My own body folding toward the floor before I consciously decided to move.
One moment, we had been driving.
The next, people were trying to kill us.
And then Colt was gone.
That was the part my mind kept returning to.
The open door.
The flash of his body moving through it.
The realization that he was running toward the gunfire.
By the time he took me to the safe house that night, the adrenaline had burned down into something colder. I had sat beside him in the parked vehicle and admitted that I could still hear the bullets striking metal. He had admitted he had been afraid too.
Then he walked me inside.
Cleared every room.
Checked every lock.
Held me when I finally admitted how much I hated that Marcus could still reach into my life.
And when Colt left for the emergency leadership meeting, he promised to come back.
To you.
The words had followed me through the safe house long after the door closed behind him.
Now I sat alone on the edge of the bed and tried not to hear gunfire.
The house was quiet, but not truly silent. The security system emitted a low electronic hum. Somewhere outside, one of the men assigned to the perimeter spoke briefly into a radio. Pipes shifted in the walls.
Every sound became something else before my brain corrected it.
A footstep.
A weapon.
Metal twisting under impact.
I pressed both palms against my thighs.
I knew what was happening.
Acute stress response. Hyperarousal. Intrusive sensory recall. My nervous system was still responding to a threat that had ended hours ago.
Knowing did absolutely nothing to stop it.
That realization almost made me laugh.
I had spent years helping people understand that insight and regulation were not the same thing. That identifying a trauma response did not magically end it.
Apparently, I had still expected professional training to grant me some exemption from being human.
A knock sounded at the bedroom door.
I flinched.
“Caroline?”
Doc.
I released the breath trapped in my chest. “Come in.”
He entered carrying a medical bag and wearing the exhausted expression of a man who had spent the day treating people he knew.
“How’s Sweet?” I asked immediately.
“Pissed off.”
Relief hit so hard my eyes burned.
Doc set his bag down. “Which means fine.”
“And the prospect?”
“Bullet went through the shoulder. Ugly, but he’ll keep the arm.”
“The Lords member?”
Something shifted in Doc’s face.
My stomach dropped.
“Still critical.”
I looked down.
For a second, I saw the highway again.
Prime leaning out the window.
Colt moving between vehicles.
A man falling.
“Hey.”
Doc’s voice pulled me back.
He crouched in front of me but did not touch me.
“Stay here.”
I swallowed.
“I am.”
“Good.”
He checked my pupils. Blood pressure. Pulse. Asked about dizziness, nausea, pain I might have missed while adrenaline was high.
“No physical injuries,” he said eventually.
“I know.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
I almost smiled.
Doc packed the cuff away.
“You’re going to feel like shit.”
“How reassuring.”
“Headaches. Muscle pain. Shaking. Maybe nausea. You might sleep for fourteen hours or not at all.” He zipped the bag. “Your body thought you were dying today. Takes time to convince it otherwise.”
My throat tightened.
“I keep hearing the bullets.”
Doc nodded.
No surprise.
No false reassurance.
“Colt said the same thing once.”
I looked at him.
Doc immediately seemed to regret the words.
“After the black site?”
He sat back on his heels.
“Different situation.”
“But he heard things afterward.”
Doc’s silence answered.
I looked toward the dark window.
The glass was reinforced.
I knew that.
Still, I imagined cracks spreading across it.
“He was so calm,” I whispered.
“Who?”
“Colt.”
Doc’s expression changed.
“I watched him run into gunfire.”
“He was doing his job.”
“No.” I shook my head. “It was more than that.”
I could still see him.
The precision.
The absolute absence of hesitation.
I had known what Colt was capable of. Intellectually, at least. I knew his history. His training. His role in the club.
Knowing a man was lethal was different from watching him become lethal in front of you.
“He looked like he knew exactly who he was out there,” I said.
Doc was quiet.
That frightened me more than an easy denial would have.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“With Xtinction?”
“With him.”
Doc studied me.
“I’m not his therapist.”
“Neither am I.”
The answer came too quickly.
Something in Doc’s expression softened.
“Good.”
I almost resented him for saying it.
Then he stood.
“Let him tell you what happened to him today.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then you decide what that means for you.”
I stared at him.
Doc picked up his bag.
“That’s the difference now, Caroline. You don’t have to get him to the right answer.”
The words followed me after he left.
I sat in the bedroom for another twenty minutes.
Then I gave up pretending I might sleep.
***
At twelve forty-seven, headlights swept across the front curtains.
My entire body went rigid.
I was off the couch before I consciously moved.
The security radio outside crackled.
A door shut.
Footsteps crossed the porch.
I knew it was Colt.
Still, I waited until the lock turned and I saw him.
He stepped inside.
Stopped.
For one long second, neither of us moved.
He had changed clothes since the highway. Dark jeans. Black T-shirt. Clean hands.
Too clean.
My gaze caught there.
His knuckles were scrubbed raw.
The sight hollowed something inside me.
Colt closed the door and locked it.
Then checked it.
Once.
Twice.
His eyes moved to the windows. Hallway. Kitchen.
“Colt.”
His gaze snapped to mine.
I had seen hypervigilance before.
In patients.
In myself.
I had never seen it on him this nakedly.
His breathing was controlled but deliberate. His shoulders held too high. One hand flexed at his side before closing again.
He looked like a man whose body had returned from the highway while some other part of him remained there.
“You came back,” I said.
Something broke across his face.
“Yeah.”
I crossed the room.
Halfway there, I stopped.
Every instinct told me to touch him.
The old instinct told me to assess first.
Neither felt right.
So I asked.
“Do you want me close?”
Colt shut his eyes.
“Yeah.”
One word.
Barely audible.
I went to him.
His arms closed around me so hard I lost my breath.
I did not complain.
I wrapped mine around his waist and pressed my face against his chest. His heart hammered beneath my cheek.
For several seconds, he simply held me.
Then his entire body began to shake.
Not violently.
That almost made it worse.
Tiny tremors moved through his arms and shoulders as if his body had waited all day for permission to stop functioning.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered.
His grip tightened.
I almost said, You’re safe.
The words died before they left me.
I did not know if he felt safe.
I would not tell him what he felt.
Instead, I stayed.
Eventually, Colt pulled back.
“I need to sit down.”
We made it to the couch.
He sat heavily, elbows braced on his knees, staring at his hands.
I sat beside him.
Not touching.
Waiting.
His fingers flexed once.
“I killed three people today.”
The words landed in the quiet room.
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
His head turned.
Something sharp moved through his expression.
“You’re not going to tell me I protected everyone?”
I could hear the challenge beneath the question.
The expectation.
Maybe even the hope that I would give him an easy absolution he could reject.
“No.”
Colt stared at me.
“You did protect us,” I said. “But you also killed three people. I’m not going to pretend one truth erases the other.”
His jaw tightened.
For a moment, I thought he might stand.
Leave.
Instead, he looked back at his hands.
“I liked it.”
The confession was barely a whisper.
My pulse stumbled.
Colt laughed once.
There was nothing amused in the sound.
“There it is.”
I stayed still.
“I fucking liked it, Caroline.”
His voice sharpened.
“Not killing them. I don’t know. Maybe that’s bullshit too.” He stood abruptly and paced toward the window before catching himself and stopping several feet away. “Everything made sense.”
I watched him.
“On that highway, I knew exactly what to do. I knew where the fire was coming from. Knew which position to take. Knew how long I had before the next vehicle reached you.”
His hand dragged over the back of his neck.
“There was no noise in my head.”
My chest tightened.
“No memories. No panic. No wondering whether I was fucking everything up.” He looked at me. “Just the threat and what I had to do to stop it.”
I understood then.
Not completely.
Enough.
“You felt clear.”
Colt’s face twisted.
“Don’t make it sound better.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No.” I stood slowly. “I’m trying to understand what you’re actually telling me.”
His breathing changed.
I stopped several feet away.
“You’re not telling me you enjoyed watching people die.”
His gaze dropped.
“You’re telling me that for a few minutes, your mind went quiet.”
Silence.
Then, “Yeah.”
The word cracked.
My chest hurt.
Colt turned away.
“I’ve spent months trying to get better. Therapy. Medication. Talking about shit I spent years burying.” His hands clenched. “And today I ran into gunfire and felt more like myself than I have since I came home.”
I wanted to go to him.
I did not.
Not yet.
“That scares you.”
He laughed bitterly. “Shouldn’t it?”
“Yes.”
His head snapped toward me.
I held his gaze.
“Yes,” I repeated. “I think it should scare you.”
He stared at me.
“I think feeling at home in violence after what was done to you is something you need to take seriously. I think pretending it’s fine because you saved us would be dangerous.”
His face emptied.
The words hurt him.
I saw it.
I continued anyway.