Talk is one thing, but this, this is action.
He's protecting me.
Not just in the abstract way he claimed before, with money or employment, but with his actual body. Putting himself in the line of fire.
For me.
The fight feels like it lasts hours, though it must only be minutes more. Declan reloads without missing a beat, eyes scanning, movements fluid and deadly. Two more attackers fall back, wounded, dragging themselves to cover.
The final attacker appears suddenly from behind a parked car to our left. A massive man I feel I recognize. One of the Albanians from back then. From the compound. The nightmares.
He's shouting something in his native tongue, gun raised and aimed directly at us.
Declan pushes my head down and fires. When I look up, the Albanian is on the ground, unmoving, expression frozen in surprise.
Silence falls, broken only by the ringing in my ears and my own heavy breathing. It's finally over.
Henry checks the area, speaking rapidly into his phone, confirming the attackers have retreated or been neutralized.
Declan turns to me then, and the look on his face makes my stomach drop. Fury and fear war, mixed in emotions I've never seen on him before.
He grabs my hand. "Can you stand?"
I nod and he pulls me up.
"From now on, you don't leave my sight," he growls. "You're coming with me. My house. My rules. My protection. End of story."
I don't dare argue. Not this time.
Because I watched him fight for me. I watched him shield me with his own body. I watched him risk everything.
And for the first time in my life, I feel safe.
Even if that safety is wrapped in blood and fire.
He pulls me toward the SUV and I climb into the back, sliding across the leather seat. Declan follows, sitting so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He says something to Henry, who hops in the driver's seat, but I don't catch it.
I turn to look out the window and my hands won't stop shaking. I stare at the aftermath of the ambush, at the men scattered across the street. Men who came for me.
The car lunges forward and our tires are screeching as we exit the bus station.
"Are you hurt?" His voice cuts through the fog in my head.
I shake my head, then realize that's not entirely true. My palms are scraped raw, and there's a dull throbbing in my shoulder.
"Your arm," I say instead of answering. "You're bleeding."
He glances at the wound like it's an inconvenience rather than a bullet graze. "It's nothing."
"It needs cleaning."
"Later."
I stare at him for a moment as he looks around. The efficiency he showed was both terrifying and amazing. I wonder how many times has he done this?
"They won't stop," I say. "The Albanians. They'll keep coming."
Declan turns to me then.
