Chapter 19
Liam
I pulled off the road and killed the engine at the broken gate, my heart slamming so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs from the inside. Every second I stood still was another second she was with him. Another second she was scared. Hurt. Alone.
I forced myself to breathe once—sharp, controlled—then stepped out and scanned the ground for tracks.
Another engine cut off behind me.
I spun, hand already on my weapon, adrenaline flooding hard enough to make the world sharpen to a razor’s edge.
Wyatt stepped out first, moving low and silent. Clay climbed out second, jaw locked, eyes flat with purpose. Hunter emerged, rifle already checked, loaded, safety off.
For a second, I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hissed, though even to my own ears it sounded more like a plea than a reprimand.
Wyatt moved to my side, voice low. “You really thought we were going to let you do this alone?”
Clay pressed an extra flashlight into my palm. His expression wasn’t his usual easy grin; this was the Clay who only came out when things were life and death. “She’s one of ours now. You don’t go in without us.”
Hunter didn’t say a word. Just checked the wind direction, adjusted his stance, and scanned the treeline like he’d been preparing for this his whole life.
My throat tightened—grief, rage, fear, something too tangled to name.
I wanted to tell them to stay out of it. That this was my responsibility. That she was my person to protect. That if anything happened to them—
But that wasn’t how my family worked. And the truth was brutal and simple: I needed them.
I nodded—one sharp, grateful bow of my head. “Okay,” I said, voice low. “Listen up.”
They leaned in like soldiers hearing orders on a battlefield.
“The car’s tracks lead through this gate. Fresh. Too fresh. He’s inside the structure somewhere. I saw a flashlight earlier—likely the chapel in the center courtyard. That’s our main target.”
Wyatt scanned the chapel. “Entry points?”
“Too damn many,” I muttered. “North wing is collapsing, but still accessible. West side has office windows blown out—we use that as secondary. Hunter, I need your eyes up high. If they move outside, you pick him off.”
Hunter nodded once. Deadly calm.
Clay tightened his gloves. “What about Steph?”
My chest constricted. “We move quietly until we find her. If she’s restrained, if she’s hurt—” My voice cracked, dangerous. “We adapt. But we get her out alive.”
“Copy that,” Wyatt said. “Let’s bring her home.”
We moved through the gate—four shadows slipping into darkness, boots silent on the overgrown path, the broken hotel hulking ahead like something rotten waiting to be split open.
The storm rumbled above us, the remnants of the earlier rage still crackling across the sky.
A bad omen. Or a promise. I didn’t know, and didn’t care.
All I knew was this: I would burn this entire goddamn place to the ground before I let him take her from me.
Then I heard it—a cry, muffled and choked but unmistakably Stephy. The sound turned my blood to ice, then to fire. She was alive. Conscious. Fighting.
But the sound hadn't come from the chapel. It came from the main building. My eyes narrowed, scanning the building for signs of movement. Then I saw it. On the second floor, corner room, a faint light flickered.
I signaled the brothers with quick hand gestures—the same ones Owen had taught us for deer hunting, now repurposed for hunting monsters. Quiet. Close in. Second floor.
We moved like shadows. Clay slipped behind the main door, covering the primary exit. Hunter positioned on the exterior stairwell, rifle trained on the windows. Wyatt took the interior hallway, preventing any escape route.
I positioned myself at the room's entrance, every muscle coiled, every nerve firing.
The sound of Stephy sobbing hit me like a bullet to the chest. But mixed with the sobs were his words, that sick voice I'd heard on her recordings.
"—perfect dress for our wedding. You look so beautiful. Just like I imagined."
I counted down with my fingers where the brothers could see. Three. Two. One.
I kicked the door in with enough force to tear it off its hinges.
The scene inside froze my soul. Stephy in a white dress, duct tape on her wrists and ankles, mascara streaking her face. And him, Marcus Fitzgerald, thin and manic-eyed, jerking her upright with a knife pressed to her throat.
Stephy’s eyes went wide when she saw me, fresh tears streaking her cheeks.
"Back off!" he screamed, the knife trembling against her skin. "She's mine! We're getting married! You're interrupting—"
"Let her go." My voice came out deadly calm, the voice that had talked down drug dealers and killers. "This doesn't have to end badly."
"You don't understand! She loves me! Her songs—they're all for me!" The knife pressed harder, and I saw a bead of blood appear on Stephy's throat.
Her eyes found mine—wide, terrified, but also trusting. Believing I'd save her. Knowing I would.
"Marcus," I said, using his name, making it personal. "I know you love her. I know you don't want to hurt her."
"I would never—" He jerked, agitated, and the knife sliced a shallow line across her neck. Stephy flinched, a muffled scream behind the duct tape, and blood trickled down to stain the white dress.
The world went red. But not rage-red. Precision-red. The red of absolute clarity. I moved on pure muscle memory, fast as light.
One breath to steady. One adjustment of angle. One squeeze of the trigger.
The shot was perfect—through his right eye, out the back of his skull. No chance for reflexive movement, no dying slash of the knife. He dropped like his strings had been cut.
Stephy collapsed as his grip released, and I lunged forward, catching her before she hit the filthy floor. I pulled her into my chest, one hand cradling her head, the other checking the wound on her throat—shallow, thank God, just a surface cut.
"I've got you," I murmured into her hair, using my knife to cut the tape on her wrists and ankles, then gently peeling it from her mouth. "You're safe now, Stephy. I swear it. You're safe."
She gasped when the tape came free, then broke into body-shaking sobs, her fingers knotting in my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear.
Wyatt, Clay, and Hunter swept into the room, weapons drawn, checking corners, making sure Fitzgerald was alone, was truly dead. Then they positioned themselves like a wall—Clay at the door, Hunter at the window, Wyatt watching the hallway. Creating a fortress around us with their bodies.
"Medics are five minutes out," Wyatt said quietly.
I tried to check Stephy for other injuries, but she wouldn't let go, wouldn't release her death grip on my shirt. She was shaking so violently, I was afraid she'd hurt herself.
"Sweetheart, I need to—"
"I’m ok." Her voice was broken, raw from screaming, barely a whisper. "I knew you’d come.”
“Always," I promised, lifting her into my arms, that fucking white dress stained with blood and dirt and horror. "Always and forever."
As I carried her out of that hell—her body shaking, her breath hitching against my throat—my brothers closed in around us, forming a wall of protection. Clay ahead, Wyatt at my back, Hunter sweeping the sides with his rifle up. An honor guard, a warning, a promise.
Stephy clung to me with what little strength she had left, her fingers curled into the collar of my shirt like she was afraid I might disappear if she let go.
Her voice was shredded, barely sound, more breath than words, but she kept repeating it over and over, like a prayer or a lifeline she refused to release: "I’m okay… I knew you’d come… I’m okay… I knew you’d come."
Every repetition cut me open.
Because she shouldn’t have had to know that. Shouldn’t have had to trust that hard. Shouldn’t have been left vulnerable enough to need rescuing in the first place.
She trusted me.
And I hadn’t been here.
That truth sat heavy in my chest—hot, acidic, unforgiving.
And somewhere between the broken hallway and the fresh night air outside, something inside me shifted. Not a gentle realization. A snap. A vow forged in something deeper than bone.
I wasn’t going back to the man I was before tonight.
Not to the ranger who left people to chase leads while praying he wasn’t too late. Not to the son still haunted by two bodies he couldn’t save. Not to the boy who promised to protect everyone and still couldn’t reach his parents in time.
I’d lived with that failure my whole life.
And now, with her breath warm on my neck and her whispered words unraveling me from the inside out, I understood something with terrifying clarity: I didn’t have room for another loss like that. Not with her.
She was my duty now. My purpose. My line in the sand.
And I would burn the whole goddamn world before I ever left her vulnerable again.
Never again.