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From the corner of my eye, I saw Ry break free of their grip, launching himself out of Tristan’s arms.
My aim was off.
I was going to miss.
Tristan pushed Flynn, shoving him back and out of harm’s way. He scrambled for Ry, trying to stop him from tackling Rosa.
The bullet impacted, grazing her arm.
Rosa screamed.
Blood poured out of the flesh wound.
She was distracted.
Now was my chance. I squared my aim again.
White marble soared through the air, catching my eye. Fuck. Rookie mistake.
It was the foot-high statue Zali had picked up.
A body crashed into me, blond hair flying.
Rosa screeched, “You motherfucker.”
She fired.
Another blast of sound ricocheting through my head.
Tristan pivoted on a dime. He vaulted the table. Bent at the waist, he charged Rosa like a linebacker.
The breath whooshed out of my lungs as we hit the ground.
My body cushioned Zali’s fall.
A heavy weight landed on us—Ry.
Rosa’s gun clattered to the floor.
Zali’s throw hit its mark.
A hiss of pain.
A deep groan.
Fuck. Tristan.
“Tristan,” I screamed, scrambling out from underneath Zali and Ry.
Without thinking, I moved. Instinct drove me to him.
“Ry,” Tristan cried. “Fuck. Flynn.” Panic intoned his voice, fear making it high pitched and thready.
I spun, looking for what he’d seen, and a choked-out cry bubbled up my throat.
I dropped to my haunches, then ripped off my Henley and pressed it to the back of Flynn’s head. I needed to stem the blood oozing from the gash.
Tristan went for Ry.
