Page 89 of At Your Mercy

Ro’s hand went to his jacket pocket.

“Ronan,” Elias said softly. “You’re not—”

The click of a gun’s safety being released cut through the room.

Elias’s men reacted instantly—two guns lifting toward Ro—but before they could fire, Ro’s shot cracked through the air. The sound was deafening in the small basement. Elias stumbled, blood blooming bright against his shirt.

“Don’t shoot!” Elias gasped, but it was too late—one of the guards had already fired.

And my world splintered into chaos.

Ro jerked back as the bullet hit, his body twisting with the impact. His gun clattered across the floor. I shouted his name, the sound ripped out of me raw. Elias collapsed to one knee, clutching his side, eyes blazing.

“You idiots!” he screamed at his men.

Ro fell to the concrete, one hand clutching his upper chest where the blood spread fast. He was still breathing, still moving, but barely.

I didn’t think—I just moved. My good hand worked the ankle knots loose, my head filled with static, and I surged forward, nearly falling out of the chair. The guard turned, but I was faster, grabbing for his gun. The next few seconds blurred—another gunshot, a struggle, someone screaming.

When the ringing in my ears faded enough, all I could hear was Ro’s labored breathing.

“Hey,” I said, crawling toward him, my wrist throbbing like hell. “Hey, Ro—stay with me, you hear me? Baby, please.”

He blinked up at me, eyes glassy but alive.

“Wes…”

“Yeah, I’m here,” I said, voice breaking. “I’m right here, doll.” I pressed my hand to the wound, making him weakly hiss. “I’ve got you. Just stay with me.”

Somewhere behind us, Elias laughed weakly, the sound jagged and breathless, before rasping out, “Stay alive, Ro. Stay… alive…”

21

Ronan

Pain blossomed in my chest before I was even fully conscious.

A dull, throbbing kind that felt like something had been scooped out and crudely stitched back together. The first breath I took burned all the way down. I winced, reaching instinctively for the source—only to pause when my fingers met thick, wrapped gauze. My brain lagged a few seconds behind my body, registering the texture, the tightness. Bandages.

What the hell—

My eyes opened, heavy-lidded, pupils narrowing against the dim light above me. The ceiling came into focus first. Where was I?

The air didn’t reek of blood and mildew. It smelled clean—laundry detergent and warm cotton. It smelled the way Wes’s clothes always smelled.

Wes.

The thought hit like a shock to the spine, propelling me upward before the pain in my chest slammed me back against the mattress. A strangled sound left my throat. My vision swam for a moment before settling again.

The room was his. I knew it instantly, recognized it from that night I’d broken in and sucked off his gun like a horny psycho.

I was in Wes’s bed.

My heart hammered as memory tried to claw its way through the haze.

I remembered driving—no,speeding—toward my family’s old house, my hands slick on the wheel.

I remembered the nausea that hit me when I’d walked through the front door. It looked like a tomb, not at all like the cozy, always a little messy, home I’d loved. There was nothing—no furniture, nothing on the walls, just the bare bones of the place.