Page 32 of Nica (Texas Boudreau Brotherhood #17)

T he world was slow to return—shadows at first, bleeding into shape, then sound. A monitor beeped, steady but too loud, and somewhere beyond the curtain of sleep, she heard someone breathe.

Nica blinked against the glare above her, her lashes too heavy, her eyes burning.

The ceiling was sterile white, blurred at the edges, and the air carried that sharp antiseptic scent she’d always hated.

Something tugged in her side when she tried to move, pain lighting up her chest like a match struck too close to kindling.

She gasped, the noise escaping her throat raw and panicked.

A shape moved—fast, urgent. A hand touched hers. Warm. Familiar.

“Nica.”

Gabe.

Her vision sharpened, the fuzziness clearing enough to bring his face into focus—her husband, with stubble shadowing his jaw and dark eyes rimmed with exhaustion. His blue button-down shirt was wrinkled. Her pristine, doctor who rarely had a hair out of place, looked mussed and sloppy.

What happened? Why couldn’t she remember? The incessant beeping and the fact she could see the line in her arm told her she was in the hospital. She hated hospitals. Why couldn’t she remember how she’d gotten here?

“Hey, sweetheart, I’m here.” His voice cracked at the end. He pressed his lips to her fingertips. “You’re okay now. You’re safe.”

But that wasn’t true. Not really.

She tried to speak, her throat dry as the Sahara. Gabe leaned over her quickly, lifting a cup with a straw. She sipped, every swallow scraping against soreness. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.

“You…” She stopped. Tried again. “You look awful.”

A sound escaped him—half a laugh, half a sob—and he pressed his forehead to her hand. “My precious Nica. I thought I lost you.”

Flashes sparked behind her eyes. A diner booth.

Daisy’s Diner, it had to be. Her mother grabbing for her daddy’s hand.

Dane cracking a joke about Destiny not throwing up at the dinner table.

She remembered standing, reaching to grab her purse and go to the bathroom and then—nothing.

No warning. Just the punch of fire through her ribs and the screams as she started to fall.

Dane—her brother, Dane—had caught her before she hit the ground.

She remembered calling for Gabe, wanting him with every ounce of her being.

Knowing she had to tell him she was sorry, so sorry, that she hadn’t told him she loved him that morning when they’d talked.

She’d made herself a promise when they’d gotten married, that she’d never let a day go by that she didn’t tell him she loved him—and she’d missed telling him that morning.

“It was your lung,” Gabe said softly, not lifting his head. “The bullet hit the lower lobe and nicked an artery. You lost a lot of blood. You had surgery to repair the damage and suture the artery. You’re going to be fine.”

Her mind drifted sideways, catching on a detail—something that didn’t quite fit. Wait…the man at the diner. The one who’d almost smiled at her.

He wasn’t a customer. He’d ordered coffee, never ordered food.

She’d noticed him because he’d stood out to her.

Maybe because she still found herself looking for the man who’d been following her.

The man in black, the one Gabe and Mike had spotted in the cameras.

Always staying out of range of most of the cameras.

Keeping his face averted. This man wasn’t him.

Yet she knew he was in the diner because of her.

“There was a man in the diner. He was one of yours,” she whispered. “A guard.”

Gabe lifted his head, startled. “You remember that?”

She nodded, slow and aching. Maybe she should ask for some pain medication, except she didn’t want to go back to sleep. “I thought he was following me.”

“You’re not wrong. He was making sure you were never alone.”

The quiet between them stretched, brittle and sharp.

“They think the shooter was on the roof across the street,” Gabe finally said, voice clipped. “Probably a professional. He could’ve killed you, Nica. I could have lost you and it would have been my fault. Because some maniac blames me for something that happened years ago.”

She saw it in his face, the guilt he wouldn’t speak aloud. It settled on his shoulders like a mantle, weighing him down. It wasn’t his fault, but she knew she’d never be able to convince him otherwise.

“You think this was him,” she said. “The same man who’s been calling you, the whole Melissa Carpenter thing.” Though she might still be a little foggy headed, she could read her husband easily.

Gabe looked away. “Of course it was him. This is about me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. You know it too. And I should’ve seen it coming. Should have seen that he would try to take away the one thing that means everything to me.”

She reached for him, weak but determined. Her hand barely lifted off the sheets before he caught it again, held it against his chest like he was afraid to let go.

“You couldn’t have known he’d do something this extreme, this final,” she said. “We’ve been careful.”

“Not careful enough.”

Outside the hospital window, the sun began its ascent in the sky, the long night finally passing into a new dawn.

The peace of the recovery room felt too thin, like it could shatter at any moment.

Nica’s heart pounded harder, despite the meds in her IV.

Fear clawed at her ribs—not just for herself, but for the man in front of her.

“If they were willing to shoot me,” she said slowly, “what’s to stop them from coming after you next?”

Gabe didn’t answer.

A cold weight settled over her chest that had nothing to do with the bandages or the pain.

She knew this man—knew the way he thought, the way he worked.

He wouldn’t back down. Not now. Not after this.

But the threat was escalating. The rules of this twisted game had changed.

And whoever was behind this… they’d made it personal.

Nica fought the fog of sleep clinging to her thoughts, forcing herself to stay awake. “He’s not going to stop, is he?” she murmured.

Gabe’s jaw tightened. “No.”

Her vision blurred again, but not from pain. “Then we can’t wait for him to make the next move.”

Gabe leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers. “You’re barely awake from surgery, and you’re already planning counterattacks?”

She tried to smile, though it wobbled. “You married a Boudreau, remember? I’m not exactly the shrinking violet type.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Now, I’m going to go back to sleep. Why don’t you head home? Get a shower, a change of clothes. I’ll…see you later.”

“I’d rather stay here with you.”

“I’ll be fine, I promise. I have no doubt either you or my overprotective family has a guard posted outside my door, so nobody’s getting in that isn’t completely vetted and cleared.

Go, take a shower, maybe catch a couple hours’ sleep.

When you come back, we’ll come up with a plan, because we aren’t going to let him win. ”

Gabe studied her face, and she held his gaze for a long moment before letting her eyelids droop. She needed him to go home, because she had plans to make, people she needed to talk to, because she was done letting this man win. But inside, fear twisted. Not for herself but for the man she loved.

If this person—this ghost from Gabe’s past—wanted to hurt him, there were other ways he could do it. Other people he could target—family, friends. He had to be stopped.

And Nica wasn’t about to lie in a hospital bed waiting for someone else she loved to get caught in the crosshairs. She didn’t know what she could do yet—but she’d find a way to keep this monster from taking her husband away from her.

Because now it wasn’t just about surviving.

It was about protecting the man she loved. No matter what it cost.

The silence stretched between them like a taut wire, ready to snap. Standing at the hotel room’s window, his reflection ghostlike against the city lights of Houston far below, he frowned. The phone pressed against his ear felt cold, but not as cold as the rage building in his chest.

“Say that again.” His voice was deadly quiet, each word measured and precise.

The male voice crackled through the connection.

“I said I took the shot. Everything was working, step by step. Clean line of sight, just like I always have. I never take a shot unless I know I have every single centimeter mapped, planned. But she moved at the last second—turned and reached for her purse, if you can believe it and—”

“She’s still alive.” It wasn’t a question. He could feel his carefully constructed world tilting on its axis. He hadn’t felt anything like this since the day Melissa died.

“Yeah, but barely. I hit her. They rushed her to the hospital. There’s a chance she might not—”

The phone exploded against the wall, plastic fragments scattering across the plush carpet like shrapnel. Staring at the destruction, hands trembling not with fear, but with pure, unadulterated fury, he fought back the primal scream building in the back of his throat.

Months. Months of planning, of watching, tracking every move to systematically dismantle Summers’ life piece by piece.

The WHO job offer loss had been beautiful—listening on the cloned phone when they’d withdrawn the offer, knowing he’d never understand why his dream had crumbled.

Even when the FBI agent had pleaded with her to give them time to prove the documents were forged, he knew the job offer was as good as gone.

Each calculated move had been a work of art, a symphony of suffering designed to make Gabe understand what it felt like to lose everything.

But this—this had been meant to be the crescendo. The moment Gabe would know true agony, the same soul-crushing devastation that had consumed him when he’d cradled Melissa’s lifeless body at the funeral home.

Summers had killed her. It didn’t matter what excuses the hospital gave for the botched surgery.

Didn’t matter that Summers hadn’t been the surgeon who was supposed to do Melissa’s surgery; he’d been the one holding the scalpel.

His arrogance, his hero complex—rushing into that operating room when he’d been high on drugs.

Playing God with the woman he loved more than his own life.

He swept the contents of the mahogany desk onto the floor, papers fluttering like dying moths. The crystal paperweight—a gift from Melissa—shattered against the wall, each shard catching the light like tears.

“She’s alive,” he said aloud, testing the words, hating their taste. “She’s alive .”

But not for long. The plan had been elegant in its simplicity—take away what Gabe treasured most, let him live with the knowledge that his love was gone because of him. Just like he had to live with Melissa’s absence, the phantom weight of the wedding ring he still carried in his pocket.

Now Nica Boudreau-Summers was lying in some hospital bed, probably with Gabe holding her hand, whispering the same promises he had whispered to Melissa before they’d wheeled her to the operating room. The irony wasn’t lost on him—both women fighting for their lives because of Gabe’s choices.

Except this time, Nica might actually live.

His reflection caught in the bathroom mirror as he splashed cold water on his face.

The man staring back looked like a stranger—hollow-eyed, gaunt, consumed by a hunger that no amount of revenge seemed to satisfy.

When had he become this? When had love transformed into something so dark it barely resembled its original form?

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except making Gabe Summers suffer.

He pulled out his backup phone, the burner he used for specialized contacts only, fingers steady now as he dialed. The anger had crystallized into something harder, more focused. More dangerous.

“It’s me,” he said when the line connected. “The woman survived. We’re moving to Phase Three.”

“What do you want me to do about the woman?”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “If Gabriel wants to play savior so badly, let’s see how many people he can actually save.” He paused, closing his eyes and picturing Melissa’s face, and the faces of the children he never got to see anymore. “Starting with himself.”

The plan had been elegant. Now it would be brutal.

Gabriel Summers was going to learn that some debts could only be paid in blood.