Page 28

Isabel

I draw in a steadying breath, pressing myself closer to Lincoln’s side as we step away from the ambulance. The cold night air bites at my skin—still wearing the torn dress from the club—but his warm arm around my shoulders wards off the chill. My heart has barely stopped hammering since we were rescued from that shipping container, but at least now, for the first time in what feels like forever, I can breathe. The swirl of blue and red lights from police cruisers bathes the entire dockyard in a surreal glow, but I try to block it all out, focusing on the comforting solidity of Lincoln’s body next to mine.

Across the makeshift triage area, a paramedic carefully peels away Dean’s shirt to examine the wound on his shoulder. Sophia stands at his side, one hand clutched in his, tears still bright in her eyes. Despite everything, a faint smile touches my lips—she’s safe, he’s safe, and we’re all here. “I’m sorry,” Dean murmurs to Sophia, tilting his head, “didn’t mean to freak you out. Just a stupid bullet graze.”

She scoffs gently, wiping her cheek with the back of her free hand. “Dean, a bullet graze is still a bullet graze. You’ve lost some blood?—”

“I’m fine,” he insists, though his wince when the paramedic prods his shoulder betrays him. “Just patch me up, please, so I can get my family out of here.”

Lincoln’s arm tightens around me at the word “family,” and a flutter of warmth sparks in my chest. I blink back tears… part exhaustion, part relief.

The paramedic finishes applying a gauze pad to Dean’s shoulder, taping it down with efficient motions. “You should get a proper check at the hospital,” the medic says sternly. “Bullet grazes can still cause complications, risk of infection?—”

“Sure, sure,” Dean mutters, grimacing as he shifts his arm, but it’s obvious he’s anxious to leave. His gaze flicks to me, then to Lincoln. “We’ll swing by the hospital after all this is sorted out.”

Sophia rubs his good shoulder, exhaling a shaky breath. “At least let me drive you.”

“Whatever you say,” Dean murmurs, leaning to rest his cheek against her hair. In the swirl of flashing lights and the chaos of police chatter, it’s a tender moment that almost makes me forget the horrors of the night. Almost.

Then Dean’s eyes narrow, focusing on me and Lincoln standing so close. His brow furrows, an unreadable expression flitting across his face. “So,” he says slowly, voice tinged with both fatigue and curiosity, “you two… when did this happen?”

Lincoln’s muscles tense at my side, and I swallow hard, suddenly aware that we haven’t talked about it ourselves, let alone planned how we’d explain it to my overprotective brother. My face warms. “Dean…” I start, my voice wavering.

He raises his uninjured hand, a small, wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hey, I’m not mad,” he says, though the tension around his eyes suggests he’s still trying to come to terms with it. “I know he’s always cared about you.”

My cheeks burn at his words. “I think I’ve always cared for him too.”

Dean exhales, looking between the two of us. Then his eyes shift back to me. “I trust him fully, but do you?” he asks quietly. And I realize that’s his main concern—his protective nature. He wants to ensure I’m in good hands.

I feel Lincoln’s hand squeeze my shoulder, like a silent vow he’s standing by me. A lump forms in my throat, and I nod, voice trembling. “I do.”

A swirl of emotion flickers across Dean’s face—surprise, resignation, maybe relief. He nods once, rubbing his jaw. “All right,” he says simply. “We’ll talk more later. As long as he doesn’t get you shot,” he adds with a faint, humorless chuckle, “I can handle it.”

I manage a small laugh—fragile, but real. For a second, it feels like we might finally step out of the nightmare into something resembling normal. Then, a new voice interrupts.

“Dean, Lincoln, Isabel, Sophia.” We turn to see a woman approaching—a tall blonde with a sharp gaze, wearing a fitted jacket that screams law enforcement. She flashes a badge at one of the uniformed cops before crossing to us. “Chloe Huxley,” she introduces herself, voice calm but urgent. “Detective, and wife of Devereaux—he told me you’d be here.”

Dean nods. “What’s the situation, Detective?”

Chloe tucks a stray hair behind her ear, scanning the group. “We managed to secure the area. Morris is in custody—” she glances at me, and I recall how we tackled him in the container, “—thanks to you two, actually. And we’ve detained Tyler and Livvy. We’d been hunting them for a while—trafficking, conspiracy, all sorts of charges.”

“Who?” I ask.

Lincoln leans close to my ear, and whispers, “Vera and Trey. Their real names are Tyler and Livvy Mayweather.”

My stomach turns at the memory of Vera’s betrayal, but I push it aside. “What about Lazarus Delgado?” I ask, voice shaking. “Please tell me you have him.”

Her lips press together in a grim line. “He slipped away in the chaos. We’re not sure how, but we have reason to believe he escaped onto a private boat. My team’s on it now, scanning the harbor. We won’t stop until we find him.”

A cold fist of dread squeezes my heart. Lazarus is still out there—one of the most dangerous men in the criminal underworld, free to plot more revenge. Lincoln’s hand tightens on my shoulder again, grounding me, but I see the flicker of anger in his eyes. Dean’s jaw clenches.

“Let us help,” Dean says, stepping forward. “I’ve got men, resources. We can track him if you coordinate with me.”

Chloe lifts a palm in a calming gesture. “I appreciate the offer. Truly. But let the police handle it for now. We have a task force and jurisdiction in Saint Pierce. If Lazarus tries to flee internationally, we can coordinate with the FBI. We just need to keep the lines clean.” She glances at the bullet graze on Dean’s shoulder, eyebrow arched. “And you have your family to worry about right now.”

Dean’s features tighten, but he nods, conceding the point. “Fine,” he says. “But if you need me?—”

She offers a small, empathetic smile. “You’ll be my first call, believe me. We’ve been trying to pin Lazarus for years, and now that we have his associates in custody, we might finally get the evidence we need to extradite him back to Italy.” She brushes another stray strand behind her ear. “We almost had him last year, but he ended up weedling his way out of that mess, too.”

Exhaling, I slip my hand from Lincoln’s side, running it through my disheveled hair. “What about Morris? Will he… be put away for good?”

Chloe’s eyes glint with satisfaction. “Morris is wanted on multiple charges across state lines. With the testimonies from the other women in another container close by—” her gaze flicks to me and Sophia, “—plus your own statements, he’s looking at a long sentence.” She hesitates, then continues more softly, “I’m truly sorry for what you both went through. You saved a lot of future victims by exposing his operation.”

My cheeks heat, a swirl of conflicting emotions churning in my chest mainly at the relief he’ll be punished, and guilt for not spotting the threat earlier. “We just did what we had to,” I murmur, swallowing hard.

Chloe nods. “And I thank you for it. For months, I suspected Livvy and Tyler were luring vulnerable people into their trafficking ring, but they covered their tracks well. Now we have them both, plus Morris. It’s a huge win.” She offers a gentle smile before turning a more solemn look on Dean. “Again, I’m sorry about Lazarus.”

Dean’s expression is bleak, but he nods. “We’ll find him,” he says, voice low. “He’s not going to terrorize my family anymore.”

Chloe sketches a salute, her eyes flicking to me, to Sophia, and to Lincoln. “If any of you recall details—anything that might help us nail Lazarus’s whereabouts—call me.” She fishes a card from her jacket, handing it to Dean. “And if you need to talk, or you realize you have more information about their operation, any detail could be critical.”

I watch as Chloe’s determined posture seems to sink a bit, likely from the weight of the night’s events. She’s probably exhausted, too. “I have to coordinate the cleanup here,” she says, lifting her phone. “Take care of yourselves. You all deserve some rest.”

Then she’s off, striding through the swirling lights and chaos, weaving around officers who are bagging evidence. I exhale, the tension ebbing slightly. Morris is going away for a long time. Vera and Trey—or whatever their names may be—are finally in custody. A sense of victory stirs, but it’s overshadowed by the reality that Lazarus escaped. Who knows what he’ll do next?

Dean’s gaze returns to me, softened by concern. “You two all right?” he asks, flicking a glance between me and Lincoln. I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about just the physical injuries.

Lincoln meets my eyes, and a flood of unspoken emotion passes between us. “We’ll manage,” he says quietly, his tone gentle. “We should probably get them checked out at a hospital, though. Isabel’s been through a lot.”

My exhaustion hits me in a rush, and I let out a shaky laugh. “I guess a doctor’s look-over wouldn’t hurt. I feel like a wreck.”

Dean nods, relief in his stance. “Then let’s get out of here,” he says, turning to wave over some of his men, who are standing guard near a battered SUV. Sophia leans on him, still shaky on her feet. I step forward, intending to help, but Dean shakes his head. “It’s all right,” he murmurs, hooking an arm around her. “We’ll follow you. Let’s get the hell away from these docks.”

I swallow, glancing once more at the container-strewn port. My skin crawls thinking about what might have happened if Dean and Lincoln hadn’t arrived in time. If Lazarus had succeeded in shipping us abroad… My jaw clenches. Never again, I vow silently.

Lincoln slides a careful hand over my back, guiding me toward his truck, which is parked near a line of police cruisers. I lean into his warmth, letting his presence ground me. The police lights flash against the dark sky, illuminating the wreckage of this violent night. Officers still swarm, gathering statements and hauling unconscious or cuffed criminals into squad cars. Part of me wants to break down sobbing in relief. Another part just wants to curl up somewhere safe, away from prying eyes.

We ease into the truck. Lincoln helps me climb into the passenger seat as if I’m made of fragile glass, and for a moment, I almost protest—I’m not helpless. But exhaustion tugs at my limbs, so I let him. Once he’s settled behind the wheel, I can feel his attention flicking toward me, concern etched into every line of his face.

“How do you feel?” he asks softly, sliding the key into the ignition. “Need anything? Water?”

I shake my head. “I just want to sleep,” I admit, voice trembling. “But… maybe after we get cleared at the hospital.”

His expression gentles, and he briefly touches my cheek. “We’ll do that.” Then he starts the engine. The tires crunch on gravel as we pull away from the container yard.

The drive is quiet. The adrenaline is fading, leaving me bone-weary. The city lights blur past the window, and I rest my head against the seat, letting the rumble of the engine lull my racing thoughts. I sense Lincoln’s gaze flick to me every now and then, as if he’s checking to make sure I’m still here, still breathing. He must be as rattled as I am, I realize.

We reach the hospital at the edge of Saint Pierce, and nurses usher us into a curtained exam area. Dean is whisked off for more thorough treatment of his shoulder. Sophia insists on staying with him, refusing to let go of his hand. I watch them from across the busy ER—he’s trying to reassure her, even in his own battered condition. My heart twinges at the love there, a love that overcame fear and bullets just to save each other.

A nurse beckons me over, checks my vitals, inspects bruises on my arms and wrists. She cleans a small cut on my temple that I didn’t realize was bleeding. I flinch at the sting. Lincoln hovers in the doorway, arms folded, tension carved into his posture. He’s the only reason I feel safe in this sterile chaos.

When the nurse finishes, instructing me to rest and follow up with a doctor in the morning, Lincoln steps closer, offering his hand. I grasp it, heart fluttering. We exit the curtained area and find a quiet corner in the hallway while we wait for Dean’s final clearance. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the antiseptic smell of the hospital burns my nose.

For the first time all night, it’s just the two of us—no police, no gunfire, no kidnappers. My stomach tightens with nerves and longing. We haven’t had a single second to talk about… us.

Lincoln seems to sense the shift in the air. He glances down, brushing a thumb over the bruises circling my wrist, a pained look crossing his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “That you got hurt, that… I wasn’t faster.”

A fierce wave of tenderness and frustration hits me. I step closer, letting my free hand press against his chest. “This isn’t your fault,” I say, voice thick. “You saved me. You and Dean. That’s all that matters.”

He lifts his gaze, emotion flickering in his eyes. “I meant what I said before,” he murmurs, “about protecting you. And I know we haven’t had time to figure out… what this is between us, but I?—”

I swallow, tears threatening again. “I know.” My throat constricts around the admission. I don’t have fancy words either, but the tension in my chest feels painfully real. We share so much—the memory of that first undercover dance, the nights that blurred lines we never intended to cross, the terrifying vulnerability I felt in the container, calling his name. “I’m still figuring it out, too,” I say. “But I want to figure it out—with you.”

His sigh of relief mingles with a faint, exhausted smile. We stay like that for a moment, foreheads almost touching, until footsteps break the hush. Dean appears, an arm bandaged and in a sling, Sophia at his side, the nurse trailing them. Despite his injuries, Dean’s gaze zeroes in on us, reading the tension and closeness.

He clears his throat, eyes narrowed. “Everything good over here?”

A wry smile twitches at my lips, and I step back, letting Lincoln’s warmth linger against my arm. “Yeah,” I say softly. “We’re… good.”

Dean nods slowly, not pressing the topic—probably too exhausted himself. “Let’s get home,” he says, wincing as he adjusts the sling. “The hospital wants a few more forms filled out, then we can leave.”

Sophia’s eyes brim with gratitude as she looks at me. “Thanks for fighting, for being brave when… everything was so terrifying. I didn’t think—” Her voice chokes, and she shakes her head. “I didn’t think I’d see Dean again.”

I hug her gently, tears slipping free. “We made it,” I whisper, voice trembling. “That’s all that matters.”

Lincoln and Dean exchange a look, something like mutual respect passing between them—maybe a silent agreement that, for all the times they might butt heads, tonight they were unstoppable when it came to saving the people they love.

An hour later, we’re out in the hospital parking lot, the night sky fading into the early gray of morning. Birds chirp in the distance, a mundane sound that feels jarringly normal after the chaos of shipping containers and gunfire. Dean and Sophia head toward their car, planning to crash at home after picking up some medication. I promise I’ll check on them soon, and Dean gives me a lingering, curious glance before nodding.

Lincoln opens the passenger door for me, helping me climb in. My muscles ache, my wrists sting, and every breath reminds me how fragile life can be. Still, the tension seeps away when he slides into the driver’s seat, gaze flicking over to me as if to confirm I’m there. We share a tired smile.

“You want to crash at your place or mine?” he asks, voice gentle.

I consider for a moment, heart pounding with newfound vulnerability. “Yours,” I finally say. “If that’s all right. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

He exhales, a faint smile curving his lips as he pulls the car out of the parking lot. “All right. We’ll figure out the rest in the morning. Together.”

And so we drive off, the horizon blazing pink with the promise of sunrise. My eyes drift shut, lulled by the hum of the engine and the knowledge that, for once, I’m safe. We still have so much to sort out—Lazarus Delgado is at large, Dean has questions, and our own relationship needs clarity. But for now, it’s enough that Lincoln’s here, guiding me through the quiet dawn, arms ready to hold me if I slip.

Exhaustion claims me in a soft wave, head lolling against the seat, a fragile hope warming my chest. Because no matter how dark the last few hours were, we survived. And I have a feeling that with Lincoln by my side, I’ll find the strength to face whatever comes next.