But before I can say anything, Ryland speaks from the couch.
“He’s right. It’s a risk either way, and I fucking hate that. But if it comes down to two shitty options, I pick the one where we’re there to protect her if shit goes down. I’m not letting Carson touch her again.”
“Yeah. Agreed.” Theo’s voice is serious and low. His fingertips brush my arm as he adds, “Never again.”
The timbre of his voice makes my heart quicken, and I turn my head back to face him slowly, taking in the bandage that covers his right upper arm. He changed his shirt, ditching the bloodstained one, but I remember the bright swath of red that covered his arm earlier.
I reach up to touch the bandage, and he jerks slightly, but I don’t think it’s from pain. “Are you okay?” I whisper.
“Yeah.” His crooked smile is gentle. “Just grazed me. I don’t even need stitches.”
I bite my lip to hide my grimace. There is no “just” when it comes to bullets, as far as I’m concerned. There’s only “dead” and “not dead,” and I’m grateful as fuck that he still falls into the second category. I don’t say any of that though, because I’m not sure I’m ready to admit to these men how much I still care about them, despite everything.
Maybe I’m not even ready to admit it to myself.
“I know a place where we can hide out,” Ryland says. “Down by the warehouse district. It’s nowhere near any of our safe houses, so Carson will have a harder time tracking us down there. I say we gear up, head out, and hole up.”
My gaze shifts to him briefly, my brows pulling together a little.
These three men might not have chosen to play this dangerous game they’re embroiled in, but I don’t think “hide out” is a phrase they’ve probably used much before in their lives. Like Theo said, there are risks involved even in trying to lie low. But more than that, none of these guys are the types to back down from a fight.
But that’s exactly what they’re about to do.
They all hate Carson with a burning rage, and the countdown clock is ticking down the seconds they have left to get their vengeance on him.
Instead of plotting revenge, though, they’re going into hiding. Standing down from a fight.
For me.
Strong emotions roil my stomach, but I squash them down, taking a step back from Theo.
Don’t let yourself care for them, Ayla. Don’t let them get under your skin.
But it’s too late for that. They’re so far under my skin I swear I can feel them inside me sometimes—little pieces of them lodged inside my heart like burrs.
“Agreed.” Marcus nods decisively. “Let’s head out in five.”
Ryland stands, the movement fluid and graceful. “I’ll check our ammo and weapons.”
“I’ll check police scanners,” Theo adds, digging out his phone.
“I’ll… put my shoes on.” My contribution sounds lame as fuck, but I’m not sure what else I could do to help.
As everyone breaks away to deal with their respective duties, I walk quickly back toward the bedroom. My gaze snags on the bed in the middle of the room, and my mind reels as I struggle to process everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours.
Marcus was inside me less than twelve hours ago. Theo’s lips were on mine. And Ryland was watching it all.
That might be the most intimate thing I’ve ever done with three people.
So why do they feel almost like strangers now?
I scrub a hand down my face, as if I can somehow wipe my thoughts clean and start over with a fresh slate. My shoes are sitting by the edge of the bed, neatly lined up. One of the guys must’ve taken them off me while I was asleep.
They’re simple slip-on ballet flats. Less than ideal footwear when running for one’s life, but that was the last fucking thing on my mind when I put them on yesterday.
I slide them on and then turn to head back to the living room—but stop short when Marcus’s broad frame appears in the doorway.
He steps into the room, resting a hand on the wall to block my path. A foot and a half of space separates us, and it feels like a mile and a fraction of an inch at the same time.