Blood on the Canvas

Marlo

The sharp, muted pfft of the silenced round was instantly followed by the terrifying sound of glass disintegrating into a million tiny needles beside my ear.

I didn't even have time to scream.

A massive, heavy shadow smashed into me with full force. Jarrah vaulted the iron railing of the VIP cage, his powerful arms wrapping around my waist like steel bands. He dragged me down to the hard concrete floor, covering my body entirely with his own just as a second bullet buzzed through the air, burying itself into the stone wall right where my head had been a second ago.

Thump. Concrete dust rained down over our hair and shoulders.

The crowd below went completely wild. Screams echoed through the subterranean warehouse as people trampled over one another, scrambling frantically toward the narrow exit doors. The heavy bass of the arena music cut out, replaced by sheer, chaotic noise.

"I've got you," Jarrah rasped against my ear, his broad chest rising and falling violently against my back. "I've got you, little bird. Don't move."

He was trembling. The man who had just taken down a two hundred pound bare knuckle fighter without breaking a sweat was shaking so hard his teeth were clenching. He cupped the back of my head with his rough, bloodied hand, pressing my face deep into the crook of his neck.

He smelled of raw sweat, iron, and the cold, sharp scent of gunpowder. His bare, scarred chest was hot against my cheek, and I could feel the frantic, wild hammering of his heart against my ribs.

Every single wall I had built around my heart every piece of doubt, every fear of his dark, possessive nature instantly crumbled into dust.

He hadn't hesitated. He hadn't thought about the glass cutting his skin or the bullets flying through the dark. He had simply thrown himself into the line of fire to be my shield. Again.

I buried my face in his chest, my hands reaching out to grab the damp fabric of his tank top. "Jarrah..." I sobbed, my voice choked with raw, overwhelming emotion.

"Shh," he growled softly, his lips pressing hard against my hairline. His voice was thick, bleeding with a desperate, terrifying tenderness that made my throat ache. "You're safe. You're alive. I won't let them take you."

He slowly lifted his head, his amber eyes completely blacked out with a primal rage, scanning the shadowy perimeter of the VIP platform.

Down near the concrete pillar, the assassin was already turning to blend into the panicked, fleeing crowd. But before the man could take three steps, a dark figure detached itself from the heavy shadows behind him.

Cal O'Shea.

Cal didn't yell. He didn't hesitate. He stepped up behind the gunman, wrapped a thick, tattooed arm around his throat in a brutal chokehold, and slammed him hard against the cold concrete pillar. The silenced pistol fell from the shooter's fingers, clattering loudly against the floorboards.

"Jarrah! I've got him!" Cal yelled over the roaring panic of the crowd.

Jarrah didn't let go of me immediately. He lifted me gently, keeping his massive body positioned firmly between me and the open room. His hands cupped my face, his thumbs wiping away the concrete dust and tears on my cheeks. His fingers were shaking against my skin.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded, his voice raspy and desperate. "Marlo, look at me. Are you bleeding?"

"I'm fine," I choked out, pressing my palm against his cheek, feeling the rough stubble against my skin. "I'm okay, Jarrah. I'm okay."

A low, painful breath left his lungs. He leaned down, his forehead resting firmly against mine for three quiet, agonizing seconds. The sheer intimacy of the moment stole whatever air I had left. The conflict inside me melted into a deep, inescapable truth: no matter how dark or terrifying his world was, I was bound to him. Body, heart, and soul.

"Stay behind me," he whispered, standing up and pulling me to my feet. He held my hand in a tight, unyielding grip as we moved toward the pillar where Cal held the shooter.

The assassin was pinned flat on his stomach, Cal's heavy boot pressed directly into the small of his back. The man was dressed in a plain black jacket, his face pale and completely devoid of emotion.

Jarrah dropped to one knee beside the man, grabbing him roughly by the hair and pulling his head back.

"Who sent you?" Jarrah growled, his voice dropping into a deadly, chilling register that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Was it Siobhan? Speak!"

The shooter didn't plead for his life. He didn't scream. A strange, bitter smile spread across his bloodied lips.

Crunch.

A soft, sickening sound came from inside the man's mouth.

Cal's eyes widened in horror. "Jarrah! Stop his jaw!"

Jarrah shoved his hand into the man's mouth, but it was already too late. The assassin had bitten down hard on a glass cyanide capsule hidden inside his back molar.

Within five seconds, the man's eyes rolled into the back of his head. His body gave one violent, terrible convulsion, and then went completely limp on the cold floor matting. Dark blood and white foam seeped from the corner of his mouth.

Jarrah let go of the man's hair, standing up slowly. He wiped his hand on his pants, his face pale and set in stone.

"He took a kill switch," Cal muttered, cursing under his breath as he kicked the dead man's gun away. "Professional syndicate hit. They didn't want him talking."

My knees felt weak as I stared at the dead body on the floor. "Siobhan..." I whispered, my voice trembling. "She sent him to finish it."

"No," Jarrah said softly, turning to face me. His amber eyes locked onto mine, dark and grim. "Siobhan wouldn't use a syndicate hitman with a cyanide switch. This wasn't Siobhan."

"Then who?" I begged, reaching out to touch his arm.

Before Jarrah could answer, Cal's phone buzzed violently in his pocket. Cal pulled it out, tapped the screen, and his face instantly drained of all color.

"Boss," Cal whispered, his voice trembling in a way I had never heard before. "Look at the live feed from the harbor."

Jarrah pulled out his own encrypted device. The screen lit up with a live security broadcast from Port Phillip Bay.

My breath caught in my throat.

On the screen, the massive Vance container ship the one carrying fifty million dollars worth of maritime assets was sitting dead in the water near Pier 42. Smoke was pouring from the lower decks, and red emergency lights were flashing across the hull.

Standing on the dock right in front of the burning ship was a tall man in a tailored suit, holding a satellite phone.

It wasn't Aunt Siobhan.

It was my father's old business partner the man who was supposed to have died in the Melbourne fire ten years ago.

Jarrah's jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He looked down at me, his grip tightening around my fingers until it almost hurt.

"Your father's ghost just lit the harbor on fire," Jarrah whispered.