“Ghost! Stop!” Boone’s voice cut through the chaos as he and Jax sprinted toward the fight, but Owen was beyond hearing.
He had Mitch pinned now, one knee crushing the officer’s sternum, one hand locked around his throat. The other drew back for another blow, and Naomi knew with sudden, horrifying clarity that he wouldn’t stop. That Mitch Deveraux was about to die right here, on the festival grounds, in front of children and families, at the hands of a man the system had trained to kill without hesitation.
“Owen!” she screamed. “Owen, stop!”
His head jerked toward her, eyes wild and unseeing, fist still raised. For a heartbeat, she thought he hadn’t heard her, that the man she knew was lost in whatever dark place he’d gone to. Then recognition flickered across his face, followed immediately by something else—not regret, not shame, but fierce protectiveness.
“He was there,” Owen snarled, loud enough for the gathering crowd to hear. “He was in that barn. He helped take her.”
Mitch’s bloody face contorted with panic. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! Get this psycho off me!”
People were pulling out phones now, recording the confrontation. Parents yanked children away from the scene, festival-goers backed up to a safe distance, and someone shouted for the sheriff. Through the chaos, Naomi locked eyes with Jax, silently pleading. He nodded once, understanding immediately.
“Ghost,” Jax said, approaching slowly, hands spread wide. “We got this. Look around you.”
Owen’s gaze flicked up, taking in the crowd, the phones, the children watching with wide eyes. His jaw clenched, but his raised fist lowered slightly.
“He doesn’t walk away from this,” Owen said, his voice deadly quiet.
“He won’t,” Jax promised. “But not like this. Not here.”
With visible effort, he uncurled his fingers from Mitch’s throat and rose to his feet in a single fluid movement.
Mitch immediately scrambled backward, hand going to his holster, but X was there suddenly, casually placing a boot on the officer’s wrist. “I wouldn’t,” he advised, his usual charm replaced by something much colder.
“You’re all fucking dead,” Mitch spat through bloody lips. “Assaulting an officer. Resisting arrest.”
“Funny,” Boone said, kneeling beside the fallen man with deceptive gentleness. “I didn’t see any arrest happening. What I saw was a tribal police officer being identified as a kidnapper in the middle of a public festival.”
Naomi pushed through the crowd to reach Owen, who stood unnaturally still, blood dripping from his knuckles, his eyes never leaving Mitch.
“Owen,” she said quietly, placing herself between him and his target. “Look at me.”
Slowly, painfully, his focus shifted to her face. The rage in his eyes didn’t diminish, but it transformed, becoming something controlled rather than consuming. He took a deep breath, then another. When he spoke, his voice was steady again, though threaded with steel.
“He doesn’t touch you again,” he said, the words both promise and threat. “Not ever.”
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Oh, no.
Someone had called Sheriff Goodwin.
This was about to get so much worse.
thirty-nine
Stay calm.
Stay in control.
Ghost drew one practiced breath, and then another, and another, and repeated the mantra in his head over and over.
Stay calm.
Stay in control.
But his knuckles ached, and his palms were sweating. His breath sounded too harsh, bouncing off the concrete cell.
