Page 140 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

I wish Londyn had made a different choice, one that would keep her breathing and alive in this world, even if I couldn't be in it with her.

With one hand, I reach over to intertwine her fingers with mine. With the other, I raise my gun toward the bathroom door.

Together, then.

Chapter 44

SEAN

"GET BEHIND ME," I TELL Londyn. There's no time for me to pull off my bulletproof vest and put it on her, so I'll have to be her shield.

"No." The word is small but lands with the weight of mountains. Her voice doesn't waver, doesn't crack. "I'm done hiding. If this is where it ends, I'm facing it."

She steps beside me, shoulders squared, chin lifted like she's about to walk onto a stage rather than face armed killers. There's a fire in her eyes. She's reached some invisible line within herself and decided, here and now, to cross it. "I'm tired of cowering. If I die today, I die fighting. With you."

The transformation steals my breath. This woman—who flinched at strangers' glances, who mapped escape routesthrough every room, who lived half her life in shadows—is now standing shoulder to shoulder with me facing death like it's just another fucking Tuesday.

I don't deserve this level of courage, this raw and perfect trust. But she's giving it to me.

"Fuck, I love you." My free hand catches the back of her neck, pulling her to me with an urgency that borders on desperation. Our mouths crash together. But it's not a goodbye kiss. I refuse to let this be our goodbye.

We're going to survive. We're going to wake up beside each other tomorrow, and it'll be a new day.

I amnotfucking saying goodbye.

When we break apart, both breathing hard in the tiny space between us, she doesn't move away or soften. Just squares her stance, lifts the mace to eye level, and gives me a small nod.

Ready.

Footsteps move just outside the door. The floorboards creak. The bastards aren't even trying to be stealthy.

I position my Glock, both hands steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. Each breath has a forced slowness. Whatever response my body is trying to have, my mind needs to remain strong and in control. I've been in enough firefights toknow how this goes. They'll come in fast. Our only advantage is the space and the element of surprise; they can't know exactly where we're positioned.

The doorknob turns as someone tests the lock.

Londyn's breath hitches beside me, but her arm remains steady, the mace positioned like she's done this a thousand times. Christ, she's something else.

I motion with my head, wanting her to go around to the other side of the door. Our attacker needs to see me first. She understands and gets into position.

The next heartbeat, the door crashes inward, splintering around the doorframe. A man appears. I see a flash of a bulletproof vest hidden under a suit jacket and steady male hand gripping a gun. His eyes lock with mine for a fraction of a second before Londyn lunges forward.

The mace hisses as she sprays it directly into his face. He jerks away, a startled shout strangled in his throat as his hands fly up instinctively. I don't hesitate. My finger squeezes the trigger twice in rapid succession. The shots are deafening in the small space, even with a suppressor to dampen sound.

I hit my mark.

The man staggers backward as blood pours from the hole at his neck. His weapon clatters to the floor first as he struggles tobreathe, then his knees buckle. He collapses to the side, hitting Londyn's dresser on the way down.

Londyn gasps and turns her head away from the man. I motion at her to get behind the open door. She moves quickly, just a second before a bullet zips through the opening and shatters the bathroom mirror in an explosion of silver fragments.

That wasn't a warning shot. That was meant to kill.

Now I have vital information: they're not here to capture Londyn.

Also, the whispered hiss of the attacker's suppressor was barely audible. It's professional-grade equipment, not some street-level hardware. That's actually good news. They're trying to keep this quiet, which means they don't want to alert the neighbors. They care about getting out clean.

More rounds punch through the doorway as another attacker blindly fires from cover, trying to flush us out. Plaster and wood splinter from the doorframe, a fragment slicing across my neck like a razor. The sting is distant.

Londyn remains pressed against the wall behind the door. I'm on the opposite side, both of us out of the direct fire line unless they decide to start shooting through the walls. The bathroom's cheap drywall wouldn't provide much resistance.

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