Page 16 of Stolen Faith

One glorious, amazing, thrilling thought.

These incredible men were hers.

* * *

Sound was muffled by the fabric, but he didn’t need to hear Izabel’s words or vocalizations when he could read her body language. His fiancée had just had one hell of an orgasm. He shifted, about to rise, when he heard it.

The hissing pop sound, muffled by her skirts over his head, made Rowan’s whole body go still.

That was an air gun.

Without conscious thought or decision-making, he grabbed Izabel by the knees and yanked her off the couch.

Probably a Umarex Beretta M92 A1 CO2 BB air pistol.

Rowan ripped Izabel’s skirt off his head, whipping around to see a small dart sticking out of Brennon’s shoulder. The other man was staring at it, eyes wide. Rowan surged to his feet, stepping in front of Brennon, facing the threat.

Five black-clad and armed men stood in a semicircle on the far side of the living room, between them and the front door—the only exit.

In a fraction of a second, Rowan assessed his options. Five assailants, their objective unknown, and he had two unarmed civilians to protect.

Wait…he was an unarmed civilian too. Shit.

Strategic retreat or escape was out unless he could clear them away from the door. There was no secondary exit.

The next best option was to take a defensible position, put himself between the VIPs and danger and wait for support.

Rowan reached for his phone…but it was in his jacket pocket. A jacket that was now ten feet away, tossed uselessly over a chair. Getting it meant stepping aside and giving the assailants clear line of sight to Izabel and Brennon.

“Brennon!” Izabel was reaching across the couch for Brennon, who was blinking slowly, one hand curled around the dart in his shoulder.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Rowan asked.

“Any doubt we had is sure as shit gone now,” the man in the middle said. He had a pronounced Southern accent and wore at least four guns strapped to his body that Rowan could see. His urban camo pants didn’t look quite right, and that was definitely a ski mask covering his head and face, not a tactical balaclava.

The man beside him, however, had the cold, calm stare of an experienced soldier or fighter. He wore all black, including a lightweight balaclava and a vest with bulging pockets. The only gun he had was the one in his hand, held in a two-fisted grip.

“Doubt about what?” Izabel snapped, pushing to her feet to stand beside him. Rowan put his arm out, blocking her.

“Stay down,” Rowan told her.

Izabel’s gaze was locked on the intruders and there was fire in her eyes.

Behind Rowan, Brennon murmured a faint, “Fuck.” Then there was the sound of fabric sliding and a soft thump.

“Brennon?” Rowan asked.

“He’s passed out. I took the dart out but…” Izabel’s voice quavered, but she cleared her throat.

Rowan didn’t move as she slid behind him, reached around, and surreptitiously patted his pockets. He knew what she was looking for, and Rowan shook his head. He didn’t have his phone.

Izabel’s voice was steady as she whispered, “None of us have our phones. I’m going to go for the security panel on that wall. There’s an emergency button.”

“No, stay here,” Rowan said.

“It has a direct line to both building security and the police. You keep them talking.” Izabel started to inch away from him.

Damn it. He could only protect her if she stayed close.

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