Chapter 3
Trigger
The church bells hadn’t rung yet.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
I was sitting at the only red light in town, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, telling myself I wasn’t watching the church—just killing time. The small white building sat quiet under a pale morning sky, stained-glass windows glowing soft and harmless in the sunlight.
Too harmless.
The light turned green.
And the church’s back door exploded open.
Rylie Tate came flying out like she’d been shot from a cannon.
Barefoot.
White dress torn at the hem.
Hair half-pinned, half-wild.
She was running like hell itself was on her heels.
“Rylie,” I breathed.
I hit the horn without thinking.
Her head snapped toward the sound. For half a second, her eyes locked on mine—and whatever she saw there made her sprint harder. She crossed the street without slowing and dove into my truck, slamming the door shut behind her.
Fear was written across her face so clearly it stole the air from my lungs.
I punched the gas and pulled in front of The Last Stand Tavern, tires crunching against gravel. I was out of the truck before it fully stopped, already moving to her side.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demanded, helping her down.
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
A shout ripped through the air behind us.
My body moved before my brain caught up.
I shoved Rylie behind me and turned toward the sound.
The church door slammed again.
Two men stepped out.
One wore a tailored suit that probably cost more than the tavern made in a week. The other looked like muscle—thick neck, shaved head, eyes scanning like he was already calculating angles and exits.
The suited man’s gaze landed on Rylie.
And the look on his face wasn’t concern.
It was possession.
“Rylie!” he called, forcing charm into his voice. “This isn’t funny.”
She flinched so hard it felt like someone had punched me.
“I’ve got you,” I said quietly, pitching my voice low and steady. “You’re safe.”
Her fingers twisted into my shirt like she didn’t believe the word safe existed anymore.
Havoc burst out of the tavern, Saint right on his heels.
“What the hell—” Saint started, then took one look at Rylie’s bare feet and torn dress. His jaw hardened. “That’s not cold feet.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not.”
The suited man took a step closer.
Every instinct I had went razor sharp.
I leaned down, my mouth close to Rylie’s ear. “Is that him?”
She nodded. Barely.
That was all I needed.
I shifted her fully behind me, planting myself between her and the street.
Havoc moved without a word, his body blocking the tavern entrance. Ace and Beast appeared in the doorway, drawn by instinct and noise.
The suited man’s eyes flicked over them—quick, assessing.
“She’s my fiancée,” he said smoothly.
Rylie made a small, broken sound.
“She doesn’t look like she wants to be,” Saint replied.
The man’s gaze snapped to me, and for the first time, the charm slipped. What showed underneath was cold. Calculating. Angry that something he owned had run.
“And who are you?” he asked.
“Someone you don’t want to meet on a bad day.”
His eyes dipped to my shoulders, like he was deciding whether I was worth killing.
Then he noticed the numbers.
He smiled again—but it was tighter this time.
“Rylie,” he said softly, voice turning coaxing. “Come here. You’re embarrassed. Weddings are stressful.”
Her hand shook against my ribs.
“No,” she whispered.
The word was barely audible.
It hit him anyway.
His eyes narrowed just a fraction.
Then he nodded, like he was granting her permission to breathe. “Fine. Take a minute. But we need to talk.”
He turned to the shaved-head man. “Get the car.”
The muscle hesitated, staring at us, then moved off.
The suited man kept his eyes on Rylie. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Not a plea.
A threat.
He turned and walked away like he owned the street.
Rylie sagged.
I caught her before she hit the ground.
“Inside,” I ordered.
Havoc yanked the door open.
I turned her and followed her into the tavern—away from the church, away from the man who thought she belonged to him.
And whatever hell she’d just escaped.