There would never be a wedding night for us, I realized glumly, if I didn’t get past this stumbling block. What the hell was wrong with me? Could I really still fear him hurting me after all this? Surely, I understood by now that Mac would rather die than hurt me again? He saw his therapist every week without fail, and she’d even suggested I come along to a session with him in the future, something Mac was totally comfortable with.
He turned the shower on and gently lowered me into it. “You shower first, darlin’. I’ll make you a coffee.”
Those three words bubbled up inside, but he’d already left the bathroom by the time I got the I out.
Damn it.
The rest of the morning was tense. I knew Mac was trying to work us through the tension with small talk, but I kept waiting for my moment to tell him I loved him. The words just wouldn’t come out; I kept telling myself it had to be a perfect moment.
Instead, we readied ourselves to leave the bungalow to collect Eilidh and Lewis. I’d offered to take them into Inverness for back-to-school shopping to give Regan and Thane some time to themselves.
“Got everything?” Mac asked as he grabbed the car keys off my sideboard.
It might as well be our sideboard, I thought, as I nodded and followed him to the door. We were practically living together. And doing it well! I thought it would be an adjustment to give up my autonomy, but Mac wasn’t like any man I’d dated before. Perhaps it was his age, but he was a million times more mature than any of the men I’d dated. He told me when he was having a bad day, when he had to fight a little harder against the doubts in his mind that he wasn’t good enough. He always asked about my feelings, and I knew he genuinely wanted to know.
Plus, Mac could compromise like nobody’s business. Nothing was a hassle for him. He didn’t make the small things into big things. And bonus points—the man was tidy! Years of looking after himself meant he cleaned up at his back. There was no fighting over dirty laundry or dishes or anything silly like that. The only thing we “argued” over was what to watch on television, and honestly, I didn’t care. I just enjoyed teasing him. Life with Mac was easy, this miraculous, complex mix of serenity and explosive passion.
And the thought of him not being in my house filled me with dread.
Mac opened the door and stepped outside.
I had to tell him.
“Mac, I—”
A low bang sounded in the distance seconds before Mac grunted, his right shoulder flying backward.
Then he whipped around, face pale, expression haggard with fear as he threw himself over me. Confusion slowed my thoughts, my understanding. There was another bang, and his body jerked against mine. Suddenly, I was flying back into the house, my head rattling off the hallway floor as Mac collapsed over me.
“Fuck!” he gritted out as he used his long legs to slam the door shut. “Stay down and crawl into the bedroom hallway!”
I could only watch as he locked the door, and then suddenly, there was a shattering sound and the glass pane at the top of my door rained down over Mac’s head.
“Mackennon!”
Understanding dawned.
We were being shot at.
We were being fucking shot at!
Mac was shot.
Terror filled me. “Mackennon!”
He slumped down behind the door, his color worryingly pale, his features etched with pain. “Arro, make sure the doors are locked, but stay low.”
“I’m calling the police.” I fumbled in my purse.
“Arro, doors!”
“I can do both.” My hands shook as I grabbed my phone. “We need to slow the bleeding.”
He nodded calmly. Too calmly. “Doors first. You can’t help me if you get shot too.”
That had me moving. Staying low, I called the police as I scrambled into the kitchen toward the patio doors. A reassuring dispatcher assured me police and an ambulance were on the way and told me to find somewhere to hide. I couldn’t. My mind reeled.
Mac. Who was shooting at us? Why?