Oh…fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Does that mean there really is someone out to get Rowan?
A shadow passes over Uncle Lyle’s face. “How the hell did you find us?”
A humorless smirk graces Rowan’s face. I can barely recognize him like this. He looks bigger, broader, taller. And he’s not scared.
There’s a man pointing a gun at him, andhe’s not scared.
“The question you should be asking is what will I do now?” Rowan’s voice is low and deadly.
Uncle Lyle’s throat bobs on a swallow. “Even you can’t take down me and my guys.”
Rowan just smirks.
The silence is so thick, so tense, it clogs my throat.
“Blake?” Rowan asks without taking his eyes off Uncle Lyle.
“Yeah?” My voice is a horse whisper.
“Did he hurt you?”
I bite my lip and shift on the bed. My breasts ache, and there’s a lingering pain between my legs. “Yes.”
Rowan still doesn't look at me, but his expressionless face morphs into a mask of fury.
And everything suddenly moves very quickly.
Rowan is fast. He tackles my godfather, and both of them crash to the ground. The gun Uncle Lyle is holding slips out of his hand. They wrestle on the floor, swinging punches and throwing kicks, but Rowan’s got the clear advantage. Within seconds, he’s got my uncle beneath him.
Rowan reaches behind him, takes out his own gun, and presses it against Uncle Lyle’s forehead.
“Stop,” Uncle Lyle pleads. “Hold on! Jesus, fuck. Take her and go.”
Rowan laughs, and it sounds all wrong. It doesn’t sound like him at all.
Uncle Lyle’s eyes dart between Rowan and me. “Blakey, tell him to stand down. He won. He can take you and lea—”
“You’re lucky I don’t have time to stick around and rip you apart piece by piece,” Rowan growls.
The gun goes off.
He shoots him point-blank in the exact same spot Uncle Lyle shot Sam.
Blood bursts out of my godfather’s head and starts leaking onto the floor, seeping out from beneath his body.
The walls of the room spin, and I slide off the bed, needing to feel solid ground beneath me.
This can’t be real. I feel like I’m unraveling, the seams that hold my body disintegrating. My palms wrap around my head. I rock back and forth, back and forth.
Sam is dead.
Uncle Lyle is dead.
Rowan is a killer.
Dull footsteps approach me. Familiar leather boots. But when I lower my hands from my face to look at my savior, the edges of him blur.
