Evelyn's dream of securing a scholarship to America's top ballet school shattered when her mother was brutally murdered during her teenage years. Determined to make a difference, she became a detective, ready to take on the world. Assigned to invest...
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Sixteen. Sixteen long hours had crawled by since Jeremiah had pulled the trigger and put a bullet through the imposter's skull, ending him in an instant. The shot had been quick, too quick, and now Jeremiah's mind gnawed at the thought that he should have made the man suffer. The rage in him had burned too hot, leaving no space for slow cruelty, only a single, lethal act. And now, with the silence of the hospital pressing down around him, his anger had cooled into something far heavier. Since Wyatt had saved Evelyn's life, Jeremiah hadn't moved from her side. Not once. His big frame sat rooted in the hard chair, his elbows braced on his knees, his eyes locked on her still form. He had become a shadow carved into that room. Even when her father came to sit for hours, gently holding her limp hand, Jeremiah barely stirred. The older man had stepped out later to talk with Jax, his calm voice asking for every detail of what had happened to his daughter. Jeremiah respected the man for that. No flinching, no fear of the bikers who filled the waiting room like wolves circling their wounded. The old man had even tried to strike up a conversation with Jeremiah, but all Jeremiah could do was nod or shake his head. Words wouldn't form.
His chest felt too tight, like if he dared turn away, the universe would take her from him again. He knew she would live. Wyatt had told him that much, the bullet had missed anything vital, shattering her collarbone instead, which in some cruel twist of fate had stopped the bullet from tearing deeper into her shoulder. It had made surgery easier, Wyatt had said, though Jeremiah hadn't felt any easier. The old wound she carried had reopened as well.
"Oh, Evelyn," he muttered, his voice raw as he reached for her limp hand. He wrapped it in both of his, big, warm palms engulfing her delicate fingers.
"I wish I could have taken that bullet for you." Her face was so peaceful it hurt to look at her, lips barely parted as she breathed shallowly. She could have been sleeping. He leaned forward, pressing a rough kiss to her hand, then another, as if he could draw the pain out of her with the touch of his mouth. The memory of her lying in her own blood out there still stalked him, refusing to leave.
A sound broke the stillness, a soft groan, a sigh, and Jeremiah shot upright, his entire body snapping tense. Evelyn's lashes fluttered, those green eyes blinking against the harsh white of the hospital room. When her gaze found his, he squeezed her hand as though it were the only thing keeping him grounded.
"What happened?" Her voice was hoarse, confused, her mind still swimming through the fog. Jeremiah's shoulders sagged with a relief so sharp it almost hurt. For the first time in hours, his lungs filled properly. She was awake. She was here. Then her memory caught up.
"Wait... I was shot." Her free hand twitched, moving toward her shoulder, but Jeremiah caught it gently, stopping her before she could touch the bandage. She looked at him in bewilderment, then turned her head just enough to see the white gauze wrapped around her shoulder and back.
