The shack shook as the door rattled, a hard thud that snapped Sienna’s head up, her heart slamming against her ribs. That warped voice—“He’s bleeding already”—still echoed in her ears, cold and mean, and Roman stood there, gun raised, his eyes locked on her like she was the only thing in the room. The headlights outside cut through the cracked window, painting his face in harsh streaks—jaw tight, stubble dark, too damn steady when everything was spinning.
“Get back,” he said, voice low, rough, cutting through the hum of the truck outside. He stepped toward the door, putting himself between her and it, and damn if it didn’t piss her off—how he acted like her shield, how it made her feel something she didn’t want to name.
“No way,” she shot back, voice sharp, grabbing the poker again—cold, solid in her grip. “I’m not cowering while they play this out.” Her eyes flicked to his, and there it was—that look, dark and heavy, burning into her, and it hit her hard, low in her gut, a heat sh
