I nod, even though he can't see me. "Yes."
"Good. Go. I'm already pulling up to the house."
I run for the bedroom, phone still clutched in my hand. Jackson is huddled on the bed, Rex held tight against his chest, his eyes wide with terror.
I lock the door behind me and pull him into my arms, covering his ears as Derek's voice gets louder, more violent, more threatening.
And I pray that Tom gets here before Derek breaks through. Before everything I've been running from catches up to me. Before the life I was trying to build shatters into pieces I can never put back together.
Chapter 7 - Tom
I'm doing seventy in a forty-five zone, sirens blaring, and all I can think is that I should never have left them alone.
My phone is clamped between my shoulder and ear, and Beast picks up on the second ring.
"Sheriff."
"Need you and whoever's available at my place. Now. Woman and child in danger. Suspect attempting forced entry."
Beast doesn't ask questions. That's one thing I appreciate about the motorcycle club. They understand urgency. "Five minutes. We're rolling."
He hangs up, and I toss the phone onto the passenger seat, gripping the steering wheel with both hands.
Five years in war zones. Fifteen years in the military. I've been shot at, blown up, seen things that would make most people shut down completely. But hearing that fear in Claire's voice does something to me that combat never did.
Because this isn't some abstract threat. This isn't an enemy soldier or a faceless insurgent. This is a man who hurt a woman I—
A woman under my protection. That's all. A woman and her child who need help.
I take the turn onto my street too fast, tires squealing. My house comes into view, and there's a black Mercedes parked in my driveway, driver's door still open like he couldn't be bothered to close it. Like he was in such a hurry to terrorize Claire that basic actions didn't matter.
And there he is. At my front door. Shoulder against it, slamming his weight into the frame. The door is holding. I reinforced it after a break-in attempt two years ago, but it won't hold forever.
I'm out of the car before it fully stops, weapon drawn.
"STEP AWAY FROM THE DOOR!"
The man turns, and I get my first look at him.
He's tall, well-built, wearing an expensive suit that probably costs more than my monthly salary. Dark hair slicked back, the kind of conventionally handsome that probably makes people overlook the cold calculation in his eyes. He looks at me, at my drawn weapon, and has the audacity to smile.
"You must be the sheriff." His voice is smooth, educated. The voice of someone used to talking his way out of things. "This is a misunderstanding. That's my girlfriend in there with my son. We had a little argument, and she overreacted. You know how women can be."
*You know how women can be.* Like we're just two guys dealing with an irrational woman. Like he didn't just try to break down my door while terrorizing the woman he supposedly cares about.
"I said step away from the door. Hands where I can see them."
"Now hold on—"
"Hands. Now." I move closer, weapon trained on his center mass. "Interlace your fingers behind your head."
His smile fades. "Do you know who I am?"
"Don't care. You're trespassing on my property and attempting forced entry. That makes you a suspect. Hands behind your head or I will put you on the ground."
For a moment, I think he's going to resist. I can see the calculation in his eyes, weighing his options, trying to figure out if he can talk or buy his way out of this.
He sees something on my face that changes his mind. His hands slowly rise, fingers interlacing behind his head.
