Page 137 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

It's difficult to pull away from her, but I need to. I kiss her palm and then stand, my instincts shifting from mild concern to something sharper. "I need to check on something."

Her eyes cloud with concern as I buckle my belt and adjust my clothes. "Sean?"

"Just being paranoid," I say, forcing a smile. "Back in a minute. Just… stay in that position, got it?"

She laughs softly as I exit the bedroom.

In a handful of seconds, I'm in the hallway, glancing up at the security camera mounted near the ceiling. It's still there, physically undisturbed, so maybe it really is just a system crash. But my training doesn't allow for 'maybes' when it comes to security failures. Not with Londyn's safety on the line.

A nagging thought follows me as I cross the few feet to Mike's door: did I miss something in that footage because I was distracted?

When I reach for the doorknob, I hear movement. There's rustling inside the apartment. Could be Mike moving something, but I freeze, every muscle locking into place.

I pull out my phone again, this time accessing my insurance policy: the two small cameras I installed when we first arrived. They aren't connected to the main security hub, only through Bluetooth. No internet connection means no remote hack. Mike and I can only see the feeds through a phone app and when we're in range.

The feeds load, pixel by agonizing pixel, and my heart doesn't just race, it violently slams against my ribs. Then it jumps into my throat.

A man in a navy baseball cap stands just on the other side of the door, weapon drawn, his posture coiled and predatory. The suppressor on his pistol gleams.

But it's what lies beyond him that turns my blood to ice.

Mike—my friend, my brother-in-arms—is sprawled on the floor, limbs at unnatural angles, completely still. He has his bulletproof vest on but that didn't save him. Around him spreads a dark pool that can only be blood. So much blood. Too much.

My vision narrows to a pinpoint, the edges going red. Every muscle in my body seizes with primal rage. After pocketing my phone, one hand goes to my holster while the other twitches toward the door handle. I'm ready to fling open the door and unleash hell on the man who did this.

But training kicks in, forcing oxygen back into my lungs when all I want is to roar. If I charge through now, I'll be walking straightinto enemy sights. And Mike, if there's even the slightest chance he's still alive, needs me to be smart, not just furious.

What if he's not alive?

The thought cleaves through me like a blade slicing off meat.

I force my muscles to lock in place just as my emotions threaten to send me charging through that door. Bile rises hot and bitter, but I swallow it down, each breath deliberate and measured.Think, don't act. Think, don't act.

Fear wraps its dark tendrils around my gut. Not just ordinary fear, but the cold, paralyzing kind that comes from seeing someone you care about injured. I acknowledge it, then push it aside. Fear is only a body sensation. It's information the brain processes to keep you alive. What matters isn't the fear itself, but how I channel it.

I press my back against the wall, forcing myself to run through the tactical assessment that's been drilled into me through years of combat. One target visible. Unknown if there are more. Civilian to protect behind me. Wounded ally with unknown status ahead.

What's the best move here?

If I take a chance and barge in, that might be a death sentence. Then who would protect Londyn?

I turn and sprint into her apartment, deadbolting the door behind me. I move to the couch and shove it against the door in one fluid motion. The legs scrape across the floor, too loud in the sudden silence, and I probably left marks, but her life is more important than landlord fees.

Londyn appears from the bedroom hallway, her body half-hidden behind the wall like she's trying to minimize her target profile. Her eyes are wide with that specific kind of controlled terror I've seen before—the look of someone whose worst fears are materializing but who's refusing to collapse under them. Her hands tremble slightly, but her voice stays low and steady.

"I think someone is on the fire escape," she whispers, her gaze darting between me and the window. "I saw a shadow moving across the blinds. Could it be a neighbor?"

The question hangs in the air, but there's no hope behind it. We both know better.

Both exits blocked.Fuck.

I unholster my Glock and Londyn gasps, fully understanding that we're in some serious shit.

Metal scrapes against metal. Someone's working on the locks. Mike and I reinforced the door and windows, but that won't keep our enemies out forever.

"Bathroom," I say, the plan forming as I speak. "Now."

Londyn nods but darts to grab her purse before following me down the hall. Always thinking, even in crisis. I love that about her.

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