Page 126 of Lesson In Forgiveness

Nightmare became reality in a heartbeat.

Aware of the Glock aimed at him, Grit prepared to shoot the Irish prick causing so many problems for those he loved. Reading the asshole’s body language, he calculated he only had seconds before the Irishman took his first shot.

Without restraint, Tabitha charged Donaghue, her knife raised for a strike. Her movements were odd, not the graceful action he was used to seeing from her, and it hindered her.

Too far behind her to stop her attack, Grit shifted position, lifting his gun and taking aim at the asshole. He just needed Tabby out of the line of fire and a split second to take the shot…

Adrenaline pumped through him; years of mercenary work kept his hands and breathing steady despite the gravity of the situation.

All those years of experience went out the damn window as Donaghue fired. The shot hit Tabitha—God knew where; they were too close together for the shot to go wide—yet she didn’t cry out. The only sign she’d taken the bullet was the jerk of her body as she barreled forward. Another shot, and this time she lost her footing, plowing into Donaghue as the gun went off again.

It all happened in the space of seconds.

With a roar of rage, Grit bolted over to where his woman sprawled on the top of the man he was ready to tear apart limb by limb. Aware of Donaghue’s happy trigger finger, Grit pressed the muzzle of his own gun to the fucker’s forehead as he bent to check Tabitha.

It wasn’t necessary. Donaghue’s eyes were already clouding over, blood trickling from the corners of his slack mouth.

“Tabby. Goddamn it, Tabitha, what the fuck did you do?” Grit set his weapon down, gently taking her by the shoulders and rolling her off the body. His heart constricted, wilting into ash as soon as he got a look at her face. “Oh fuck, baby.”

There was so much blood on her, he didn’t know what was hers and what belonged to the suckers she’d annihilated. Three holes were burned into her shirt—one just below her shoulder joint, one over her left breast, and another in her midsection.

While her skin was turning ashen gray—a color he knew all too well—it was the serene expression she wore that shocked him most. Pain flickered briefly in the blue eyes he adored as she struggled to focus on him. “D-Did I get h-him?”

Grit spared Donaghue the briefest glance, eyeing the knife buried to the hilt in the bastard’s sternum, tilted up at just the right angle to hit the sweet spot. “Yeah, little tiger, you got him good.”

“Karma,” she whispered, then coughed, spraying blood over lips turning blue.

“Sssh, little tiger. Don’t talk, just breathe. I’m going to put pressure on these wounds and stop the bleeding, okay?” He plucked a knife off her belt and started cutting her shirt into pieces. “Atticus’s team is right behind me, baby. They’ll be here any minute now. They’ve got a medic and all [NP1]the right kit for dealing with this shit. I just need you to hold the fuck on.”

Her hand slid over his as he balled a section of material against the bullet hole above her breast. It was cold, which scared him more than he’d admit. “Grit…”

“No. We don’t end this way, Tabby. This is not how our story ends, and I’ll be damned if I don’t fight for you when you need me most.” Taking her hand, he pressed it on top of the ball. “Keep that there. You don’t get to leave me, little tiger.”

Her eyes softened, and her smile was too peaceful in spite of the crimson droplets on her lips. “Made a choice. Tired, Grit… so tired. I’m ready.”

“Well, tough shit. I’m not.” He’d be damned if his voice broke, and it came close to doing just that. His throat was tightening by the second, restricting his breathing as he realized there was no staunching the blood. “I need you, Tabitha. I love you.”

Her chin quivered. Weakly, she lifted her hand to his face, her fingertips brushing his beard before her strength depleted. He caught it, linking his fingers with hers so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Don’t be sad. This is… a good death. Better than it…” She coughed again, harsher this time, and the blood was more than just droplets. “Than it could’ve been. At least I… learned something.”

“Yeah?”

The doors burst open and multiple pairs of boots stormed the room.

“I learned I have a heart,” she told him solemnly, breathlessly. “I love you, Rory.”

She sighed so softly he almost missed the small exhalation. Her eyes drifted shut, the muscles in her face going lax beneath her colorless skin. The fierce grip of his hand was the only thing keeping hers in his grasp.

Someone skidded on his knees across the wooden floor, through the lake of blood gathering beneath her. A big hand covered her throat, fingers jamming against her pulse point. “Kaufman, fetch a stretcher from the truck. Cauley, I need my kit, and get a fucking chopper up here now. Grit, buddy, I need you to move out of the way. If you want me to help her, you need to move.”

Grief muffled the words. It trickled through him, carving through his heart, building power and momentum with every beat until the trickle became a stream, the stream became a river, and the river washed away the foundation of his reason to live.

Christ, how the hell had this happened?

Where was the step he’d missed, the turning point that set her on the path to this? What could he, should he, have done differently? How could he have stopped her from fucking dying on his watch?

An arm curled around his neck as a tanned hand covered his, trying to pry Tabitha’s fingers free. With a hoarse shout, Grit slammed his elbow back, connecting with solid flesh, and swiftly found himself pinned beneath the weight of two of his former team mates.

Their audacity unleashed his burgeoning grief, snapping his temper at the same time. It was oddly satisfying to dig deep, well below the fathoms of his control, and tap into the truly dangerous side of himself.

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