Lucky

Chapter 29

Ethan

Lucky’s pacing again.

Not the usual restless Lucky—lounging on counters, making chaos out of folded laundry, humming under her breath when she thinks I’m not listening.

No.

This is sharp pacing. Tight shoulders. Hands shaking just enough that only someone like me would catch it.

She just got a text message from Bank’s asking her to phone him urgently. Either he has news on the stalker, or…

She’s clutching her phone like it’s the last life preserver on the Titanic.

“Put it on speaker,” I say quietly.

She hesitates, chewing her lip, then taps the screen.

Banks’ voice fills the kitchen—strained, breathless but trying hard to pretend he’s fine. “Lu, sweetheart, I don’t want you freaking out, okay? I’m good. I’m handling it. But, uh… Jett Langford’s guys came by.”

My spine goes steel.

Lucky freezes. “What do you mean, came by?”

“They showed up at my building.” A small grunt of pain. “Wanted to know where you were.”

“Banks—”

“I told them nothing useful.”

A beat.

“Eventually.”

Her free hand flies to her mouth. I reach for her wrist, grounding her.

Banks continues, “They lifted my wallet. Saw the Cedar Lake business card I had from that pastry shop you like. They… put some pieces together.”

Lucky’s breathing stutters.

“Do you need assistance?” I ask, stepping closer to the phone like I can get between him and danger through the line.

"I’m fine, Maddox,” Banks insists, but his voice cracks on the word fine. “I handled myself. And a close friend already took care of the cleanup. I’m just calling to say—Lucky, you need to be alert, okay? But don’t panic.”

Lucky laughs—this tiny, broken sound. “That’s like telling a match not to burn.”

Banks sighs. “I’m sorry, girl. You didn’t need this. Not after… everything else going on.”

Lucky’s eyes flick to me—big, wild, tired. “Where is he now? Jett.”

“No idea. But he’s looking.”

A muscle in my jaw ticks. “He won’t find her.”

“Yeah,” Banks says softly. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

The call ends after more reassurances. Lucky stands there shaking—silent, eyes fixed on the floorboards like they might split open and swallow her.

I step in front of her.

Gently tip her chin up with my fingers.

“Hey.”

Her breath shudders out. I catch her shoulders, sliding my hands down her arms.

“You’re safe.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

My voice turns colder than stone. “Because anyone coming for you has to come through me.”

She swallows hard. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“That’s my line.”

Something loosens in her expression—a crack where fear slips through, bright and painful.

“Let’s get out,” I say. “Get your mind off it.”

“Out? Now?”

“Restaurant in town. Somewhere normal.”

Her eyes flick toward the windows, toward the tree line, toward the shadows she no longer trusts.

“You sure?” she asks.

“Yes.”

I brush my thumb across her cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

We drive to the only restaurant in Cedar Lake Falls that has proper linen napkins. Lucky sits close enough that her thigh brushes mine, but she’s quiet—too quiet. Hyperaware. Trigger-bright.

I keep one hand on her leg under the table. The contact steadies her. Steadies me too.

She’s scanning the room the way I usually do. She’s not built for fear, not this kind. It doesn’t suit her. She looks caged in her own skin.

“Talk to me,” I murmur, leaning close.

She exhales shakily. “Maybe I should have run. Maybe staying was stupid. Maybe—”

The bell over the restaurant door rings. Noise, cut clean.

I look up on instinct.

Three suits walk in—too sharp, too polished for this small town. Money stamped on their collars. But it’s the tall one in front who makes my stomach go cold. That practiced smirk. That sense of entitlement that enters a room before he does.

He scans the tables like he’s hunting something he already owns.

Beside me, Lucky goes rigid. Not tense—stone still.

Her fork halfway to her mouth, fingers trembling.

“Jett,” she whispers, voice scraped thin.

The name hits like a trigger pull.

That Jett.

The one who tried to “mentor” her. The one who groomed an orphaned young girl into believing she owed him her loyalty, her time, her future. The parasite, she still flinches remembering.

My vision narrows. Quiet. Cold.

I don’t need the details. Her reaction tells me enough.

He spots us, and that smirk widens—recognition, then possession.

“Ah,” he says, arms opening like he’s greeting a pet. “My girl.”

Lucky flinches like he struck her.

Every rational part of me folds up and locks away. What’s left is simple: remove the threat.

I stand slowly, placing myself between them before Jett gets close enough to breathe the same air she’s in.

“You’re going to leave,” I say. Calm. Flat. The kind of tone that precedes violence.

Jett tuts, delighted with himself. “Is that really how you greet the man who built her career?”

Behind me, Lucky sucks in a breath. A hurting sound. He hears it, enjoys it.

And that’s the moment a darker part of me wakes up—an old, familiar instinct I haven’t felt since Afghanistan. The one that calculates how fast I can put a body through plate glass, how many steps to the curb, how loud Lucky will gasp if I break his jaw before he hits the floor.

This bastard abused her, made her small.

He thinks he can walk in here and claim her like property.

I take a step forward, shielding her completely.

“You’re going to walk back out that door,” I tell him, my voice low, deliberate, “before I make you.”

He finally looks at me—not with fear, but annoyance, like I’m an interruption.

He has no idea how dangerous that is.

Because I’m not angry. I’m controlled. And when I get like that, men like him don’t walk away without learning something.

Something painful.

He steps closer. “Lucky, sweetheart, you’ve been gone too long. Time to come home. I’ve forgiven your little tantrum—”

“You’re done talking.” My voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.

One of the bodyguards cracks his knuckles. “Move.”

I look at him once—flat, unimpressed. “If you want a fight, we can take it outside.”

“Ethan—” Lucky grabs my arm, fingers trembling.

Jett laughs. “Look at this. Guard dog thinks he matters. Do you even understand who you’re dealing with? She belongs to me.”

Lucky recoils like he slapped her. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Jett leans in, poison curling off every word. “I picked you up out of the gutter. Your whore mother certainly didn’t help you. Without me, you’re nothing.”

Her breath stutters. Her panic spikes—hot, frantic, silent. I feel it like a shock to the nervous system.

And that’s it.

The part of me that tries to stay measured—civilian—switches off.

I grab Jett by the back of the skull and drive his face into the table. Hardwood and bone connect with a crack. The salt shaker jumps. Blood spreads instantly.

He howls.

Lucky jerks out of her chair, shock blanching her features.

The goons lunge.

“Ethan!” Lucky screams.

I’m already moving.

I pivot, catch the first one’s punch mid-swing, twist his arm, and snap the elbow clean out of its socket. He screams as I shove him into the second man, sending them both crashing into a table.

Second guy recovers fast—too fast—and reaches for metal at his hip.

Gun.

No hesitation.

I drive my knee into his ribs once, twice, fold him with a strike under the jaw, and wrench the gun free before he hits the floor.

I eject the magazine, pull back the slide, and let the bullets rain into my wine glass.

Silence hits the restaurant like a bomb.

And all I can think—breathing steady, hands loose, heart slow—is that I should’ve done this the moment he called her his girl.

Lucky is behind me, hands over her mouth, eyes huge—not scared of me. Scared for me. And flickering with something else—collision of awe and disbelief and relief.

People scatter back. Chairs scrape. Someone shouts that the Sheriff’s coming. I nod to the owner in thanks.

Jett is still whining into his bloody hands.

“This isn’t over! You think—you think—”

“Shut up,” I say, grabbing his collar and hauling him toward the door.

Sheriff Dawson’s cruiser screeches in right as I drag the gobshite outside. Deputies spill out, efficient, cuffing the two groaning suits on the ground.

Jett starts ranting that he was attacked.

Dawson gives me one look—one—and says, “Funny. Owner called, saying three men in suits came in looking for trouble.”

Jett screeches, “Arrest him!”

Dawson shrugs. “If the owner wants to press charges, I’ll hold all three of you for disturbing the peace.”

I take a breath, steady. “Give me a minute with him,” I murmur. “I won’t touch him.”

Dawson studies my face. He’s known me long enough to trust the line I’m drawing.

He nods once. “One minute.”

There are worse things than hitting a man. Letting him know what happens if he ever comes near my woman again.

I shove Jett against the side of the building, forearm to his chest, pinning him without effort. He grunts, more shocked than hurt. He expected rage. He gets something worse.

My voice drops to that place I don’t let many people hear.

“Listen carefully. You have no idea what line you crossed. And you don’t understand who’s standing between you and her. If you did, you’d already be running.”

He sneers through the blood clogging his teeth. “Is that a threat?”

“No.” I lean in until he has to meet my eyes. “It’s a certainty.”

His Adam’s apple jerks.

“You go near her again—call her, follow her, breathe in her direction—and I won’t bother with warnings. I won’t bother with the law. I’ll end the problem at the root, and no one will find what’s left of you.”

He tries to spit at me, but his broken nose ruins the angle. It dribbles back down his lip.

I step away, letting the cold air fill the space between us.

“Lucky doesn’t belong to you. She never did. But she’s under my protection now.” My stare hardens. “And I protect what’s mine.”

Dawson gestures his deputies over. They haul Jett off, his mouth still running, but the fear in his voice betrays him.

He approaches as the cruisers start loading up the three men. He adjusts his hat, eyes flicking from the broken men to me.

“What happened?” he asks, tone too casual to be casual. “Owner called in a disturbance. Said you were in the middle of it.”

I keep my hands loose at my sides. No adrenaline left—just that cold afterburn.

“They walked in looking for trouble,” I say. “I decided to interrupt their little menace party before someone innocent paid for it.”

Dawson gives me a long, assessing look. “Uh-huh.” He’s not buying the neat version, but he’s not pushing yet either. “You know I don’t like secrets in my town.”

“I don’t have any for you that matter,” I reply. “I run a security company. I piss off the wrong kind of men for a living. Sometimes they follow.”

His jaw shifts. “Those three aren’t your usual drunks starting a bar fight.”

“No,” I agree. “They’re the kind you don’t want wandering around a quiet place like this. Make sure these pissheads get escorted past county lines.”

Dawson huffs a dry laugh. “Oh, trust me. They’ll be strongly encouraged to leave before sunset. And if they come back…” He shrugs. “Well, you won’t be the one dealing with them.”

“Good,” I say.

Because if they did come back, I would be the one dealing with them.

And Dawson wouldn’t like how quickly it ends.

I watch until the cruiser disappears down the road, its taillights swallowed by the trees.

Only then do I let my lungs work properly again.

Inside, Lucky is still by our table—hands shaking, shoulders tight, eyes locked on the door like she’s bracing for the next hit. Always bracing. Always waiting.

But when she sees me, everything in her unknots at once.

She moves fast—half-run, half-stumble—and I’m there, catching her before she can even say my name. She folds into me, small and shaking, her face pressed to my chest.

“I’m okay,” I murmur into her hair, though the burning is still smoldering through me like lava beneath a frozen crust, patient and lethal.

She shakes her head, breath warm against my collarbone. “No… we’re okay.”

Her fingers curl in my shirt, holding on like someone might try to pry us apart.

They won’t.

I wrap my arms around her, anchoring her, anchoring myself, letting the world go quiet around us.

Because tonight just drove it deeper into bone:

No one takes Lucky Vale from me.

Not while I’m standing. Not while I’m breathing. Not ever.