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“I hear you. I won’t move from her side,” Deke promised.
Tate rang off and pocketed his phone.
“Hold up, me and Farrell are coming with you,” Luke called out.
Tate said nothing. He didn’t care who came along, providing he reached her fast. Outside, Luke slid into the driver’s seat of the SUV while Farrell rode shotgun. Eager to get to his mate, Tate would have insisted on driving if he was in a fit state to do so. He was close to losing his shit, and having his cat turn into a ball of fury inside him wasn’t helping. So he simply hopped into the rear passenger seat and snapped out, “Drive.”
“I know anger is riding you but lock it down,” said Luke. “She’s fine.”
Tate gritted his teeth, his fists clenched. “She took three bullets.”
“But she survived.”
That wasn’t the fucking point, because … “She took three bullets.” And he hadn’t been there. Hadn’t been able to help her. She could have died.
“And you’ll make sure whoever is responsible pays for that. Take a breath, lock down the anger, and tell your cat to calm his ass down. You have to have a clear head for this, Tate. That’s what she needs from you right now.”
She’d needed a lot of things from Tate, but he’d given her none of them. He’d let her down and, in doing so, hurt her. He wouldn’t do that again.
Drifting in that state that wasn’t quite “awake” yet wasn’t quite “asleep,” Havana frowned when her inner devil nudged her, pushing her to snap out of it. Havana didn’t want to. She was so tired, and her body just felt so heavy. Plus, it was hard to think past the thick fog in her mind.
A muffled cacophony of voices seemed very far away. Still, she could decipher a few of them. Bailey. Aspen. Dawn. Corbin. Tate.
Tate. His rumbly voice pierced right through the fog and caused her system to jumpstart—just his presence could do that.
She mentally scrambled, trying to work out why her devil was in a snit and why she felt so drained.
Her eyes weakly fluttered open. The world was on a tilt. Without lifting her head, she took in the office desk, the black leather chair, the framed pictures on the wall. She knew this room. It was Dawn’s office. And Havana was currently lying on Dawn’s sofa, she realized.
“It had to have been Gideon,” said Aspen, her voice coming from Havana’s left. “I’m not saying he pulled the trigger, I’m just saying he was behind this.”
“Definitely,” agreed Bailey, who seemed to be sitting on Havana’s right. “There’s no one else who’d target her this way.”
“She’s awake,” said Tate.
A pair of jean-clad legs entered Havana’s line of sight. Then Tate crouched in front of her and brushed her hair away from her face. Even though her body had all the enthusiasm of a wilting plant, her pulse nonetheless jumped.
“Hey,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft given that his inky blue eyes were two swirling storms of anger. There was something … different about the way he looked at her. His gaze was more intense than ever before. More piercing. More intimate. But she couldn’t quite reason it out.
“You’re fine,” he went on, lightly dancing his fingertips over her scalp. “Bullets are gone. Your wounds are healed.”
Havana touched her throat. The cracks of thunder. The hot punches of pain. “I was shot?”
He nodded, his jaw tight. “It was a drive-by—the bastards were there and gone in an instant. Aspen and my enforcers carried you in here. A resident healed you, thank Christ.”
Havana did a slow blink, struggling to absorb Tate’s words. “A drive-by? Really?”
He nodded, his eyes blazing. “You were shot in the throat, shoulder, and stomach.” The words sounded torn out of him.
Motherfucker. She ground her teeth, wanting nothing more than to pound Gideon into the goddamn ground because, seriously, who else would be behind this?
“You feel okay?” asked Bailey.
Havana sluggishly sat upright. “Just wiped. And monumentally pissed.” She didn’t need anyone to tell her she was lucky to be alive. That she’d come so close to dying just like that … it was a head wrecker.
Aspen scooted closer to her. “It all happened so fast I almost couldn’t process it. You scared the shit out of me when you blacked out.”
Havana frowned. “You have blood on you. They shot you, too?”
“No, genius, the blood’s yours. It’s all over you as well.”
Havana looked down. Ugh. Her tee did in fact boast huge crimson red stains. How ultra-special. It wasn’t the first time she’d taken a bullet, thanks to her old job, but she’d never been shot in the throat before. She hadn’t ever needed the aid of a healer to save her life.
A muscle in Tate’s cheek flexed as he skimmed his fingertips over her throat. “The bullet hit an artery.” The alpha vibes radiating from him were almost electric with fury. Every man there appeared just as pissed. The tension in the air was unbearably thick. It was too much angry-dominant-male in one space, really.
