Page 63 of Taking What's Mine

“You’re hurt,” she says, noticing a cut on my cheek or the bruises forming on my arms. I hadn’t even realized.

I manage a shaky grin. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.” More than anything, I want to whisk her away from this hellhole, find a quiet place where she can rest. But first, we endure the final aftermath—statements for the police, quick checks by paramedics. We watch as they haul Morris off in cuffs, while other cops and security men track down any remaining hostiles. And we find Lazarus.

Dean carries Sophia out, his expression carved with sorrow and relief. I keep an arm around Isabel, guiding her gently into the fresh night air. The horizon lightens with the approach of dawn, the ocean breeze carrying away some of the stench of gunfire and sweat. We stand there, battered but alive, under the glow of flashing emergency lights.

For a brief moment, Isabel’s gaze meets mine again, silent gratitude and love shining through her exhaustion. I wrap her in an embrace, pressing my lips to her hair. She sighs, nestling against me like she can’t quite believe this ordeal is over.

As paramedics hustle to check them, to treat their bruises and dehydration, I stand guard, scanning the docks for any sign of Lazarus Delgado. If he’s here, the police or Dean’s men will flush him out. If not, we’ll hunt him down another day. Right now, my focus is on Isabel. She’s trembling under the thin blanket a medic drapes around her shoulders.

We lock eyes one more time, the weight of everything we’ve endured sitting between us. I brush a stray tear from her cheek,letting her see the promise in my gaze:I’ll never let anyone take you from me again.

And in the midst of the chaos, sirens wailing and sunrise creeping over the horizon, I realize that promise isn’t just for the mission. It’s for us. Because somewhere along the line, this became about more than just duty. It became about love—and I’m not letting go.

Chapter 28

Isabel

I draw in a steadying breath, pressing myself closer to Lincoln’s side as we step away from the ambulance. The cold night air bites at my skin—still wearing the torn dress from the club—but his warm arm around my shoulders wards off the chill. My heart has barely stopped hammering since we were rescued from that shipping container, but at least now, for the first time in what feels like forever, I can breathe. The swirl of blue and red lights from police cruisers bathes the entire dockyard in a surreal glow, but I try to block it all out, focusing on the comforting solidity of Lincoln’s body next to mine.

Across the makeshift triage area, a paramedic carefully peels away Dean’s shirt to examine the wound on his shoulder. Sophia stands at his side, one hand clutched in his, tears still bright in her eyes. Despite everything, a faint smile touches my lips—she’s safe, he’s safe, and we’re all here. “I’m sorry,” Dean murmursto Sophia, tilting his head, “didn’t mean to freak you out. Just a stupid bullet graze.”

She scoffs gently, wiping her cheek with the back of her free hand. “Dean, a bullet graze is still a bullet graze. You’ve lost some blood?—”

“I’m fine,” he insists, though his wince when the paramedic prods his shoulder betrays him. “Just patch me up, please, so I can get my family out of here.”

Lincoln’s arm tightens around me at the word “family,” and a flutter of warmth sparks in my chest. I blink back tears… part exhaustion, part relief.

The paramedic finishes applying a gauze pad to Dean’s shoulder, taping it down with efficient motions. “You should get a proper check at the hospital,” the medic says sternly. “Bullet grazes can still cause complications, risk of infection?—”

“Sure, sure,” Dean mutters, grimacing as he shifts his arm, but it’s obvious he’s anxious to leave. His gaze flicks to me, then to Lincoln. “We’ll swing by the hospital after all this is sorted out.”

Sophia rubs his good shoulder, exhaling a shaky breath. “At least let me drive you.”

“Whatever you say,” Dean murmurs, leaning to rest his cheek against her hair. In the swirl of flashing lights and the chaos of police chatter, it’s a tender moment that almost makes me forget the horrors of the night. Almost.

Then Dean’s eyes narrow, focusing on me and Lincoln standing so close. His brow furrows, an unreadable expression flitting across his face. “So,” he says slowly, voice tinged with both fatigue and curiosity, “you two… when did this happen?”

Lincoln’s muscles tense at my side, and I swallow hard, suddenly aware that we haven’t talked about it ourselves, let alone planned how we’d explain it to my overprotective brother. My face warms. “Dean…” I start, my voice wavering.

He raises his uninjured hand, a small, wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hey, I’m not mad,” he says, though the tension around his eyes suggests he’s still trying to come to terms with it. “I know he’s always cared about you.”

My cheeks burn at his words. “I think I’ve always cared for him too.”

Dean exhales, looking between the two of us. Then his eyes shift back to me. “I trust him fully, but do you?” he asks quietly. And I realize that’s his main concern—his protective nature. He wants to ensure I’m in good hands.

I feel Lincoln’s hand squeeze my shoulder, like a silent vow he’s standing by me. A lump forms in my throat, and I nod, voice trembling. “I do.”

A swirl of emotion flickers across Dean’s face—surprise, resignation, maybe relief. He nods once, rubbing his jaw. “All right,” he says simply. “We’ll talk more later. As long as he doesn’t get you shot,” he adds with a faint, humorless chuckle, “I can handle it.”

I manage a small laugh—fragile, but real. For a second, it feels like we might finally step out of the nightmare into something resembling normal. Then, a new voice interrupts.

“Dean, Lincoln, Isabel, Sophia.” We turn to see a woman approaching—a tall blonde with a sharp gaze, wearing a fitted jacket that screams law enforcement. She flashes a badge at one of the uniformed cops before crossing to us. “Chloe Huxley,” sheintroduces herself, voice calm but urgent. “Detective, and wife of Devereaux—he told me you’d be here.”

Dean nods. “What’s the situation, Detective?”

Chloe tucks a stray hair behind her ear, scanning the group. “We managed to secure the area. Morris is in custody—” she glances at me, and I recall how we tackled him in the container, “—thanks to you two, actually. And we’ve detained Tyler and Livvy. We’d been hunting them for a while—trafficking, conspiracy, all sorts of charges.”

“Who?” I ask.

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