Chapter Eleven
The rifle wouldn't let go.
Ramona's fingers were locked around the stock, white-knuckled, frozen in the grip she'd held for—how long? Twenty minutes? An hour? Time had stopped meaning anything when the first vehicle hit the fence.
She climbed down from the garage roof on legs that felt like someone else's, each rung of the ladder a negotiation with muscles that wanted to shake apart. The powder burns on her forearms throbbed, angry red marks where the ejecting brass had kissed her skin.
Two men. She'd dropped two men.
The thought should have horrified her. Instead, it sat in her chest like a cold stone, present but not quite real.
Shadow was waiting at the garage bay door.
He didn't say anything. Just reached out and closed his hands over hers, over the rifle, and gently pried her fingers loose one by one. She watched him work, watched her knuckles slowly release, watched the weapon transfer from her grip to his like something inevitable.
"You're okay," he said.
"I killed people."
"You defended your home."
"I killed people." Her voice cracked. The stone in her chest was starting to warm, starting to expand into something that might become screaming if she let it. "I aimed and I squeezed and I watched them fall and I didn't feel anything—"
"Ramona."
His hands found her face, tilting it up. His eyes were dark, steady, carrying the same violence she'd just discovered in herself.
"You didn't feel anything because you couldn't afford to. That's survival. The feeling comes later." His thumbs traced her cheekbones. "And when it does, I'll be there."
She wanted to collapse into him. Wanted to let the shaking take over, let the tears come, let herself fall apart in his arms.
But there was work to do first.
"Ridge is hurt," she said. "Shoulder wound. I need to—"
"You need to sit down—"
"I need to help." She pulled away from his touch, from the comfort that would undo her. "Afterward. I'll fall apart afterward."
She walked toward the mess hall before he could argue.
Ridge sat on a bench with his shirt off and his shoulder a mess of torn flesh and seeping blood. Hatchet had done the initial work—stopped the bleeding, cleaned the wound—but the stitching was beyond him.
"You know how to do this?" Ridge asked as Ramona threaded a needle with hands that wouldn't stop trembling.
"My mother taught me." She poured whiskey over the wound—her whiskey, the test batch from the garage still—and ignored Ridge's sharp hiss. "Bar fights. Roughneck accidents. She stitched up half of Lubbock at one point or another."
"Didn't know whiskey was a disinfectant."
"Everything's a disinfectant if it burns enough."
She worked in silence, pushing the needle through skin that resisted, pulling thread through flesh that didn't want to close. Her hands shook with every stitch, but the needle went where she aimed it. Same as the rifle.
Shadow stood in the doorway, watching.
She felt his eyes on her like a physical weight—tracking her movements, cataloguing every tremor, waiting. For what? For her to break? For her to prove she couldn't handle this?
She finished the last stitch and tied it off. Ridge flexed his shoulder experimentally, winced, nodded.
"Good work."
"Don't tear them out doing something stupid."
"No promises."
She cleaned up the supplies, washed the blood from her hands, tried to ignore the way her pulse was starting to race again. The adrenaline she'd suppressed was coming back, flooding her system with chemicals that demanded action, demanded release.
Striker appeared with a bottle—her whiskey again, the test batch making the rounds—and poured shots for everyone in the mess hall. Brothers gathered, bloodied and triumphant, lifting glasses toward where Ramona stood.
"To the woman on the roof," Striker said. "Who shoots better than half the brothers and complains less than all of them."
Laughter. Cheers. The sound of men who'd survived something together and needed to celebrate the fact of their own breathing.
Ramona drank the toast and tasted nothing.
Shadow's hand closed around her elbow.
"Come with me."
She let him lead her out of the mess hall, through the compound's back corridors, into his room. The door closed behind them with a sound like finality.
"Ramona—"
She kissed him.
Not tender. Not gentle. Not the slow exploration of their first time together. This was teeth and tongue and the desperate need to feel something other than the hollow buzzing in her chest. She grabbed his cut, yanked him closer, poured every ounce of unspent adrenaline into his mouth.
He groaned against her lips and grabbed her hips hard enough to bruise.
"Wait—"
"No." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "I need this. I need you. I need to feel alive instead of whatever the hell I'm feeling right now."
"You just killed two men—"
"And I'll deal with that. Later. Tomorrow. Next week." She grabbed his shirt, fisted the fabric. "Right now I need to not think. Can you do that? Can you make me not think?"
Something shifted in his expression. The careful concern bleeding away, replaced by the same hungry darkness she'd seen in the garage doorway.
"I can do that."
He spun her around and pressed her against the wall, his body pinning hers, his mouth hot on her throat. She gasped at the sudden movement, at the strength he'd been holding back.
"You want to not think?" His voice was a growl against her skin. "Then stop thinking."
His hands found the hem of her shirt and yanked it over her head. She did the same to him, nails scraping across his back, leaving marks she hoped would last. When their bare skin pressed together, she made a sound that was almost a sob.
"Mine," he said, the word fierce against her collarbone. "You understand? You're mine. You don't get to die on a roof. You don't get to put yourself in danger without me. You're mine."
"Then take what's yours."
He lifted her like she weighed nothing, her legs wrapping around his waist, her back against the wall. The position was precarious, demanding—she had to hold on or fall, had to trust him to keep her steady.
She trusted him.
"Say my name," he demanded.
"Shadow—"
"My real name."
"Declan." It came out broken, desperate. "Declan, please—"
He carried her to the bed and dropped her onto the mattress, following her down, caging her with his body. There was nothing gentle in his touch now. His hands were everywhere—her hips, her thighs, her throat—claiming every inch of skin like he was marking territory.
She gave as good as she got. Nails down his back. Teeth on his shoulder. Her own hands grabbing, pulling, demanding more. The violence of the morning was still in her blood, and she channeled it into this—into him—because if she didn't burn it off, it would consume her.
"Harder," she gasped when he tried to slow down. "Don't be gentle. I don't want gentle."
"Ramona—"
"I shot two men today." She grabbed his face, forced him to look at her. "I aimed a rifle and pulled the trigger and watched them fall. I don't need gentle. I need you to remind me I'm still human."
Something broke in his expression. The last of his restraint, maybe. The careful control he'd been maintaining.
He stopped being gentle.
The next several minutes were a blur of sensation—his hands, his mouth, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress.
She lost track of where she ended and he began.
Lost track of everything except the overwhelming reality of his body against hers, inside hers, claiming every part of her that existed.
When she shattered, it was with his name—his real name—torn from her throat like a battle cry. He followed moments later, his whole body shaking, a groan ripped from somewhere deep.
Afterward, they lay tangled in sweaty sheets, breathing like they'd run a marathon.
Ramona's hands were still shaking.
Shadow noticed. Of course he noticed. He caught her wrists, brought her hands to his mouth, pressed kisses to her trembling fingers.
"I've got you," he murmured.
"I know."
"The shaking's normal. Adrenaline crash. It'll pass."
"I know."
He rolled onto his side, pulling her against him, her back to his chest. His arms wrapped around her like armor, holding her hands still between his.
"You were incredible today," he said quietly. "On that roof. The way you held steady, took the shots that needed taking. You saved brothers' lives."
"I killed men."
"You defended your home." His lips brushed her shoulder. "There's no shame in that."
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to feel the pride he was offering instead of the hollow numbness that had settled back into her chest.
But that would come later. Like he'd said—the feeling came later.
Right now, she had this. His arms around her. His heartbeat against her back. The steady warmth of another person who'd seen the worst of her and hadn't flinched.
"Stay with me," she whispered.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
His arms tightened.
"I promise."
Her hands stopped shaking.
Not all at once—it faded slowly, the tremors subsiding as his warmth seeped into her bones. The numbness was still there, the emotional crash waiting to happen, but it felt survivable now. Manageable.
Because he was holding her. Because she wasn't alone.
Ramona closed her eyes and let herself drift, suspended between the violence of what she'd done and the tenderness of what she'd found.
His hands held hers still.
That was enough.