Page 84 of Saved By the Boss

“Okay,” I promise.

After hanging up, I set the phone down and open my laptop, pulling up the saved draft I wrote months ago. It’s all there,everything about the murder I witnessed, the threats I received in the aftermath, the reason I ran away from LA to this tiny town in the middle of nowhere. I add Tawny’s email address, my hands trembling as I type, and then pause.

Declan.

He needs to know too, doesn’t he? If something happens to me, he should at least have some idea of who’s responsible. I hesitate for a long moment before typing his address into the “To” field. It feels like crossing a line, like dragging him into a mess he didn’t ask for. But I can’t ignore the nagging feeling that he’d want to know.

I save the draft, my finger hovering over the send button, but I can’t bring myself to click it. Not yet. Not unless I have to.

A sound outside stops me cold, and I accidentally click the button, the swooshing sound from the email being sent filling the quiet space.

There’s another sound outside. It’s faint, barely audible over the wind, but it’s there. A rustling, like someone moving through the snow. I grip the hatchet tightly, my heart pounding in my chest. My eyes dart to the windows, but the curtains are drawn, and I can’t see anything.

Another sound, louder this time. A thud, followed by the crunch of footsteps. My breath catches in my throat as I move toward the front door, my grip on the hatchet so tight my knuckles ache. The footsteps stop, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence.

And then, from behind me, I hear it, a creak of floorboards. But they’re not coming from outside.

They’re inside the house.

I spin around, but before I can register what’s happening, something heavy slams into the back of my head. Pain explodes through my skull, and the hatchet slips from my grasp as the room tilts and spins.

Darkness closes in, swallowing me whole.

24

Declan

Patrick’s eyes meet mine, and a slow, broad smile spreads across his face. It’s the kind of smile that’s meant to disarm, to put his potential victims at ease, but I know better. That smile is a weapon, just like everything else about him.

“Declan!” He calls out, his voice carrying across the room like we’re old friends meeting for coffee instead of estranged brothers on opposite sides of a chasm of bad blood. “Get over here, little brother!”

The room goes quiet as I limp toward him, my ankle reminding me with every step that I’m not at my best. Eyes follow me, the men at the tables murmuring among themselves, but I ignore them. Patrick’s the only one I care about right now.

When I reach the table, he stands, arms outstretched like he’s about to pull me into a hug. I stop just short of him, my hands clenched at my sides. His grin falters for half a second before he covers it with an easy laugh.

“Still the cautious one, eh?” he says, dropping his arms and gesturing to the seat across from him. “Come on, sit. Let’s talk.”

I hesitate, my gaze flicking to the men around us. They’re watching, pretending not to, but I can feel their eyes on me. Patrick notices, too, and waves a hand dismissively.

“Don’t mind them,” he says. “They’re just here for the food. Aren’t you, boys?”

A few of them chuckle, the sound low and unsettling. I don’t bother responding. Instead, I sit, my leg protesting as I lower myself into the chair. Patrick sits back down, picking up a breadstick and tearing off a piece like we’re catching up over Sunday dinner.

“So,” I start, my voice flat. “You’re out. That’s new.”

Patrick’s smile widens, but there’s something sharp behind it now and it makes my skin crawl.

“Ah, straight to business.” He chuckles. “I always liked that about you, Declan. No time for pleasantries.”

I don’t say anything, just stare at him, waiting. He sighs, setting the breadstick down and leaning back in his chair.

“Let’s just say,” he begins, his tone casual, “that sometimes, good people need help. And when good people need help, they need help from… not-so-good people.”

My jaw tightens as I consider his words.

“You’re saying you cut a deal,” I deadpan, trying to imagine what he could’ve possibly offered to commute his sentence by so much.

Patrick’s smile doesn’t falter. “I’m saying I’m here, and that’s what matters,” he answers jovially, picking up a menu and pretending to look it over.

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