Page 39 of Bloody Knuckles

"Because someone's coming through those trees." I point toward a barely perceptible movement at the property's edge. "And they're not wearing Donovan colors."

Connor rushes to the window, hand moving to his weapon. "Fuck. Get away from the?—"

Glass shatters as gunfire erupts. Connor shoves me to the floor, his body covering mine as bullets pepper the kitchen. A searing pain slices across my upper arm—a graze, not a direct hit.

"Panic room," Connor gasps in my ear. "Behind the pantry. Code 5829."

More shots. Connor's weight becomes deadweight atop me. Warm wetness seeps through my sweater—his blood, not mine.

"Connor?" I whisper, trying to shift beneath him. No response.

Footsteps crunch on broken glass. Men's voices, low and urgent. Irish accents, familiar cadence.

"Find her. Boss wants her unharmed."

Gallagher men. My father's soldiers.

I remain motionless beneath Connor's body, mind racing. The pantry stands fifteen feet away—impossible to reach with armed men in the room.

"Check him," someone orders. "Make sure the fucker's dead."

Hands grab Connor's shoulders, rolling him off me. I keep my eyes half-closed, playing possum—a childhood trick Liam taught me when we played war games.

"Girl's hit too."

A boot nudges my side. "Aoife? Can you hear me? It's Sean McKinney. Your father sent us."

Sean—my father's lieutenant for eight years. A man who taught me to shoot a gun when I was sixteen.

I moan softly, feigning semi-consciousness. "Sean?"

"Thank Christ." Relief floods his voice. "We need to move. Now."

"Connor?" I murmur, allowing myself to appear disoriented.

"Dead," Sean confirms without emotion. "Two shots center mass. The other Donovan guard is down too."

Declan. Both killed because of me. Guilt claws at my heart.

Sean hauls me to my feet. Three other men sweep the room—all familiar faces from my father's security detail. All armed.

"Father sent you?" I clutch my bleeding arm, playing up the injury.

"Operation Homecoming," Sean confirms, leading me toward the door. "He's been planning since day one. We've had this place under surveillance for a week, waiting for Donovan to leave."

My father's men killing Cormac's. The temporary truce shattered. War is inevitable now.

"We need to hurry," another man—Brendan—urges. "Donovan's reinforcements were called three minutes ago. Ten-minute response time from the city."

Sean wraps a field dressing around my wounded arm. "Can you walk?"

"Yes." I sway slightly, still playing vulnerable. "Where are we going?"

"Safe house first. Then to your father."

They hustle me through the shattered kitchen, past Connor's body, out to the tree line where a black SUV idles. No Donovan security in sight—all neutralized or drawn to other parts of the estate, no doubt.

The SUV speeds down a service road I hadn't known existed, cutting through Cormac's property toward Dublin. Five men plus me, all armed except for my injured princess act.

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