Page 38 of His Temptation

The first bastard who stepped into his line of sight went down with a bullet between the eyes.

The second managed a shot—grazing Daragh’s shoulder before he returned fire, dropping the man where he stood.

More were coming. He could hear them—boots pounding against the stone floors, shouts in a language he didn’t immediately recognize.

Siobhan crouched behind the overturned table, her breathing controlled, her hands steady as she aimed at the approaching figures.

Daragh took position beside her, reloading. “You good, kitten?”

She flashed him a quick, feral grin. “Never better.”

The next wave came fast.

Bullets flew. The air thickened with the scent of gunpowder and blood. Daragh and Siobhan fought side by side, every move in sync—like they had done this a hundred times before.

Then he saw it—movement from the corner of his eye. A man, raising a weapon—aimed directly at him. Daragh twisted, but it was too late. The gun fired. Pain exploded—but not in him.

Siobhan let out a strangled gasp, her body jerking as she stumbled back, clutching her side.

Daragh’s world narrowed to a single, brutal point.

She had taken the bullet for him.

His grip on his gun tightened, fury roaring to life inside him. He turned on the man who had shot her, his vision going red.

Two bullets. One to the chest. One to the head.

The man dropped before he even realized he was dead.

Daragh turned, catching Siobhan before she could hit the ground.

“Damn you, kitten,” he growled, his voice barely human. He pressed his hand against the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

Siobhan gritted her teeth, her face pale. “Better me than you.”

Daragh’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. “Never. You hear me?” He lifted her into his arms, cradling her against him. “Never again.”

She tried to smile, but it was weak. “You’re awfully dramatic for a killer.”

Daragh ignored her, his only focus getting her to safety. The fight wasn’t over. But first, he had to make sure his mate survived.

The copper scent of blood filled the air, mixing with the acrid bite of gunpowder and the dying gasps of men who had been stupid enough to come for what belonged to him. The estate was a war zone, bodies littering the hardwood floors, the walls riddled with bullet holes. But Daragh only saw one thing—Siobhan, bleeding in his arms.

She had taken a bullet for him.

Fury clawed at his chest, coiling through his veins like wildfire. His hands pressed hard against her wound, blood seeping through his fingers.

Siobhan coughed, her breathing shallow but steady. “Daragh…”

“Quiet, kitten,” he growled, his voice barely human. “You’re going to be fine.”

The bastard who had pulled the trigger lay lifeless on the ground, but it wasn’t enough—it would never be enough.

A roar built inside him, ancient and feral, his panther surging forward with a force he couldn’t control. His hands dug into Siobhan’s waist where he held her, his vision blurring at the edges as something darker, something primal, took hold.

Someone shouted his name—Murphy, maybe, or Callum—but their voices were distant, unimportant. The scent of his mate’s blood and the knowledge that she had almost been taken from him were all that mattered to him. Another attacker stepped into the hall, gun raised. A dead man walking.

Daragh didn’t think. Didn’t plan.

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