Page 112 of Hold the Line

Everyone protested, especially Deacon, but I asked them all to leave when I gave my statement to the police, not wanting those details stuck in their heads.

Two officers sat by my bed, listening and taking notes as I went over what happened.

“The door was kicked in, and a man came in yelling. Richie called him”—I searched my foggy memory—“Saint. That was it.”

I described Saint as best I could, though things were hazy and my mind wasn’t quite firing on all cylinders. The officers exchanged glances, and I wondered if my description was more useful than I’d thought.

I swallowed hard. “Saint shot Richie in the leg first.”

I wished those particular memories weren’t as vivid, but I didn’t think I’d ever forget the way Richie had howled. The pain had taken him down to a base level, and the sounds he’d made were inhuman.

“I think—” I chewed my lip, nausea churning in my gut. “I don’t think Saint was really there for the money. He knew Richie didn’t have it. He…shot him in the arm next. Then Richie went for his gun, and Saint put a bullet in his chest.”

Richie had dropped at my feet. I’d thought that was it. He had to be dead.

But then he got back up. Maybe it had been the drugs in his system. Maybe he’d tapped into some hidden inner strength. I’d never know his motivations.

I blinked away my tears and fought through the tightness in my throat. “They shot at the same time. I don’t know if Richie hit him. I…um, think I passed out after that.”

The female officer touched the side of her head. “Did they tell you the bullet went through Richie and grazed you?”

Nodding, I closed my eyes. “I thought that was what happened.”

Her partner let out a low whistle. “You got really lucky. Another inch, and it would have gone in.”

It wasn’t luck. Deep down in my bones, I knew luck had nothing to do with it.

Richie Slater had saved my life.

I didn’t know how to deal with that, so I pushed it away and let sleep take me.

I woke deep into the night, but I wasn’t alone.

Deacon’s hand covered mine, his head resting on my stomach, his breaths slow and steady. I lifted my free hand, threading my fingers through his hair.

“I love you,” I murmured into the dark.

His breath hitched. Slowly, he raised his head, his eyes finding mine, glinting in the low light.

“Say it again,” he croaked.

A soft smile touched my lips. “I love you, honey.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Never thought I’d hear that again.” His voice cracked. “You were gone, sugar. And I—”

“I’m here, Deke. I’m not leaving you. Not ever.”

He pushed up from the chair, folding over me, cupping the side of my face with his warm, calloused hand. His forehead brushed mine, and for a long moment, he just breathed me in.

“The other guy is dead.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. “The guy who killed Richie?”

“Yeah.” He rolled his forehead over mine. “Richie got him in the gut. Guy bled out in his truck after he crashed into a ditch.”

I curled my fingers into his shirt, holding on tight. “I’m trying to figure out if it’s okay to be grateful a man is dead.”

Deacon exhaled, slow and heavy. “Only good thing my brother ever did was put a bullet in that man’s belly. Cops knew who he was—he had connections to a lot of bad people.” His thumb brushed over my cheek. “Now, he has none.”

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