I jerk back, staring.
“Don’t touch it,” Ethan snaps.
I nod so fast my neck twinges. What would I even do with a gun?
He grabs the weapon one-handed, checks the magazine with the precision of someone who’s done it a thousand times, and aims it at the guys who just attacked us.
Both men on the floor are groaning—not dead, though one is bleeding on his side. Ethan notices me staring at the gun in his hands, then the men on the floor, and I see him clench his teeth so hard it’s a miracle nothing cracks. With a curse, he puts the gun at the back of his waistband with practiced ease.
I stumble after him, threading my fingers through his when he offers his hand without looking. My palm is sweaty. His is warm, steady.
The garage doors open with a hiss of hydraulic mechanisms. The underground lot is mostly empty—sleek cars sleeping in numbered spaces, overhead lights buzzing. The concrete echoes our footsteps.
“This feels like the start of a slasher movie,” I mutter.
He squeezes my hand. “We’re too pretty to die.”
“Comforting,” I say faintly.
He leads me between rows of cars, eyes constantly moving, mapping sightlines, checking shadows. I start to breathe again. Maybe we’ll make it out of here. Maybe this will just be a really intense story to tell over drinks someday.
Headlights slice through the dim.
A black SUV glides down the ramp, moving fast but controlled. For a second, my muscles tense, but Ethan’s shoulders drop a fraction.
“Finally,” he mutters.
The SUV stops hard enough that the tires squeal. The driver’s door flies open.
Caleb Ward steps out like he’s walking into a warzone. He’s wearing dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and a bulletproof vest with gadgets and weapons strapped to it. His gaze takes us in—mebarefoot in a cocktail dress, Ethan rumpled and wild-eyed, the bruises blooming on his knuckles.
“You look like shit,” Caleb says.
“Nice to see you too, sunshine,” Ethan retorts.
Caleb strides around to the back, pops the hatch, and tosses Ethan a pistol. Ethan catches it without looking, checks it with the same economical movements as before. There’s a weird comfort in seeing guns in their hands and not pointed at us.
“What happened?” Caleb asks, eyes scanning the garage.
“Zhao’s men crashed dinner,” Ethan replies. “Three upstairs, two down here, minimum. Suppressors. They were going for Barbara.”
My stomach drops. “Me?”
Both men look at me. Caleb’s expression is grim. “Zhao likes targeting women,” he says. “You’re close to Ethan and Emily. That makes you useful leverage.”
The idea of being ‘useful’ to someone who traffics guns, drugs, women, and who the hell knows what else makes bile rise in my throat.
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not. I am not?—”
“You’re not anything to him,” Ethan cuts in sharply. “Because we’re going to stop him.”
He turns to Caleb. “We stash her and clean this up. Quickly.”
“Agreed.” Caleb jerks his head toward the SUV. “Get in the back, Barbara.”
I chew on my lower lip, eyeing the car. “You’re leaving me alone?” I hate how weak my voice sounds.
Ethan steps closer, his free hand curling around the back of my neck, thumb stroking my skin, grounding me. “I need to know you’re safe while we do cleanup. That’s why you’re getting the armored car.”
