Chapter 3 - Crossfire"Stay down," Declan ordered instantly, his mask of vulnerability vanishing, replaced by the lethal commander of the South Docks. He drew a heavy, suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster with terrifying speed, his body shifting to shield me.
"What's happening?" My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Mercer's welcoming committee," Declan muttered grimly, scanning the surrounding shadows through the bulletproof glass. "He didn't just want to talk at the gallery. He wanted to test how fast I'd react."
Before the thought could fully register, the rear window spider-webbed under a hail of gunfire. Glass rained down over us like glittering diamonds. Declan threw himself entirely over my body, using his own broad shoulders and chest as a human shield, shielding me from the splintering glass and flying lead.
"Declan!" I cried out, grabbing the lapels of his jacket.
"I've got you," he muttered against my hair, firing three precise shots through the shattered window of the driver's side door as Donovan fought to maneuver the heavy car out of the trap.
The chaos outside was deafening—the sharp pop of silenced gunfire, the screech of burning rubber, and the crunch of metal as Donovan rammed the SUV blocking our path. Declan kept me pinned beneath him, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle. I could feel the rapid, heavy thud of his heart against mine—not the slow, indifferent pulse of a stranger, but the frantic rhythm of a man fighting for everything he loved.
With a final crunch of tearing metal, our car broke through the barricade and accelerated into the night, leaving the ambush behind.
Silence descended inside the cabin once more, save for the ragged breathing of the engine and ourselves. Declan slowly lifted himself off me, checking me over with frantic, trembling hands.
"Are you hurt? Did any glass touch you?"
"I'm fine. What about you?" I reached out, my fingers brushing over his shoulder. My stomach dropped. A dark, warm stain was spreading across the charcoal fabric of his suit jacket. "Declan, you're bleeding."
"It's a graze," he dismissed instantly, though his face was pale. "Donovan, get us to the primary safehouse on Elm Street. No hospitals."
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"Copy that, boss," Donovan's voice called back from the front, steady and professional despite the blood dripping from a small cut on his forehead.
As the car sped through the rain-slicked Chicago streets, the reality of our situation settled over us. The illusion of safety inside our marriage was completely shattered. Mercer had declared war, and Declan’s secret—that he loved me, that I was his ultimate weakness—was now exposed to the most dangerous man in the city.
