Page 65 of Sacrifice

“Shit,” Gunnar hisses beside me, his eyes wide as he takes in the sight.

He moves instinctively, his body shifting to shield me from the crowd, from whatever threat has just turned this celebration into a nightmare. His alpha instincts are in overdrive, the protective urge undeniable even as chaos erupts around us.

“Gun!” Oberon’s voice is a distant echo as he draws a weapon, his movements a blur of finely-honed reflexes and trained precision. The metallic glint of the gun catches the light as he scans the room for the assailant, every muscle in his body coiled and ready to strike.

Panic spreads through the ballroom like wildfire, guests screaming and scrambling as they realize something has gone terribly wrong. But all I can do is watch the red spread, feel the warmth seep through my fingers as I press them against the wound in a futile attempt to hold myself together.

“Stay with me, Nero,” Gunnar urges, his grip on me ironclad. “Don’t you dare check out now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I manage to grunt out, though each breath feels like it might be my last. I’m not sure if I’m lying to him or to myself, but either way, I’m starting to realize that love might not be the only thing capable of bringing an alpha like me to his knees.

Through the haze of pain and confusion, my gaze locks with Vance’s across the room. His bright blue eyes are a tumultuous sea, churning with emotions he’d never dare voice aloud. He stands there, an imposing figure with greying hair that speaks to his years of reigning over Pacific City Angels, yet in this moment, he’s just as helpless as the rest.

Did he do this?

No…he wouldn’t, would he?

Not when he’s standing there looking like a satisfied asshole.

His look pierces through the chaos, a silent accusation that cuts deeper than the bullet lodged within me. ‘I told you so,’ it screams, louder than any spoken words. Vance had warned me, tried to make me see reason, but I’d been too wrapped up in my own bravado, too eager to prove that I could handle the target on my back.

“Shit, Nero,” Gunnar mutters under his breath, his eyes darting between my wound and the surrounding turmoil. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

People are fleeing, screaming—but I’m the only one who’s been shot.

This wasn’t a terror attack…it was a hit.

“Good plan,” I rasp, though it sounds more like a gasp for air than the witty retort I was aiming for. My vision starts to blur at the edges, the shimmering lights of the ballroom dimming into shadows as my body protests the violation it’s endured.

“Stay with us, Nero. Fight,” Aisling’s voice is soft but firm, her fingers brushing against my cheek with a touch that holds the promise of a future I’m suddenly terrified I won’t live to see.

Her sugar-sweet scent is a cruel reminder of what’s at stake, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that now coats my hands. It’s a contrast that speaks volumes about the world we’re trying to survive in—a world where beauty and brutality exist side by side.

I think…fuck, I think I’m dying.

And things were going so well.

Chapter twenty-eight

Gunnar

Time fractures in the moment the shot rings out.

My gaze locks onto Nero as he jerks back, his eyes wide with disbelief. Red blooms across his chest like a grotesque flower, stark against the pale fabric of his shirt. He looks down, fingers brushing the wound with an almost curious air, before his knees buckle and he hits the floor with a thud that echoes in my ears.

Aisling’s scream cuts through the ensuing chaos, a sharp blade of sound that carves the room into before and after. Her grey eyes, so often cool and assessing, are wild with panic now, reflecting the turmoil around us. People are a riot of motion, scrambling, shoving, running—anything to escape the unseen threat.

I’m trying to process, to move, but I’m locked in place, every detail etched with excruciating clarity. There’s no more gunfire, just the collective sound of a crowd driven by primal fear. It was a hit—calculated, precise.

But they missed…just by an inch or two, because Nero is still alive, but barely.

So they try again.

Another crack shatters the air, close enough to make me flinch. The bullet strikes the polished floor mere inches from Nero’s head. Dust and debris kiss his still form, a cruel mimicry of a caress. Someone shouts for a medic, their voice barely audible over the cacophony.

“Stay down!” I bark at Aisling, instinctively shielding her with my body. My mind races—where are the others? But right now, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting Nero out of here, making sure Aisling’s safe. We’re exposed, vulnerable in the chaos, and it’s like wearing our throats bare for the wolves.

Suddenly, Oberon and Luka are there, moving with a purpose that slices through the pandemonium. I watch as Oberon’s eyes scan the ballroom, missing nothing, his weapon already in hand—a silent promise of retribution. Luka’s beside him, his own gun drawn, face set in a mask of cold fury. They’re our line between order and oblivion, ready to tear into whoever dares threaten our pack.

---