Page 112 of Dublin Beast

“Hide, baby. I’m about to turn onto the street. I’m coming. Hang on. I’m coming.”

It goes against every protective instinct I have to hang up on her, but I need backup. “It is Eddie. Send backup, Finn. This is going to be a clusterfuck no matter how it plays out.”

“Sean is on his way with men from the clubhouse. Tag and Brenny, too.”

Good. That’s good.

When I can see the house in the distance, the first thing I notice is that there is no one on the porch. “Where are the two goons, Finny?”

“They went inside while you were talking to her.”

I’m going too fast to care about my tires howling as I rip onto the quiet residential street. There’s also no chance of slowing down to park.

Bouncing over the curb, I tear up half the front lawn and don’t bother shutting off the engine. Barreling out of my seat, I’ve got my gun poised and hit the front door at a full sprint.

It’s open. The house quiet.

I want to call out, to let Harper know I’m here, but I swallow the urge with everything I’ve got. There’s no element of surprise if I announce my arrival. And with a possible three against one, I’ll fare better with the element of surprise.

I push inside, the silence echoing like a gunshot in my skull. The place looks tidy, undisturbed. I rush through the main floor and find nothing. No sign of Harper.

I bolt up the stairs two at a time, my heart a battering ram behind my ribs. It beats to the rhythm of my panic, which is erratic and wild.

I need to get a grip.

Reining it in, I slow things down and move through the upstairs one room at a time. There’s a shattered picture frame on the floor down the hall.

The door to the main bedroom is hanging open…

And inside…

Fucking hell.

Eddie Mason is lying face-down on the hardwood, his head turned to the side, mouth slack, a pool of blood spreading out from beneath him like a morbid plasma puddle.

Pride surges through me like a drug.

Harper is a fighter.

“But where the fuck are you, trouble?”

My gaze snaps to the balcony. The French doors are open, one of them cracked along the frame like it was thrown back with force. A chill cuts through the room, and I rush to the threshold.

That’s when I see it.

Bloody handprints smeared around the door jamb and on the railing. Rushing to the edge of the balcony, I look down at the garage roof below.

I search the gritty shingles for any sign of what might’ve happened, but it’s impossible to see. Then I spot it, blood smeared all down the white downspout at the corner. That’s where she lowered herself down.

Fuck. Fuck.

The good news is she didn’t fall—she jumped.

Then sheran.

I scan the backyards in both directions but there’s no sign of her. Just the wind and the echo of motorcycles closing the distance.

“Harper!”

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