Page 16 of Blade’s Protection

I hung up, hands shaking as I set the phone down. This was insane. But Blade's rejection had lit something inside me—a need to prove I wasn't some delicate flower requiring protection. I could face danger. I could be strong.

The back door's lock clicked.

My heart hammered as footsteps approached. Two sets, maybe three. They'd actually come.

Three men entered the medication room, and my courage evaporated. These weren't nervous junkies. These were professionals—cold eyes, steady hands, one with a gun visible in his waistband.

"Smart girl," the leader said, normal voice now, no distortion. "Load up the oxy. All of it."

I moved toward the controlled substances cabinet, fingers fumbling with keys. Where were Phoenix and Tank? Where was⁠—

"Drop the keys."

Blade's voice filled the room like thunder. He stood in the doorway, death personified, gun trained on the leader. Phoenix and Tank flanked him, weapons drawn.

"MC trash," the leader sneered, but his hand moved toward his weapon.

Blade shot him in the shoulder before he could draw. The crack of gunfire in the small room made my ears ring. The man dropped, screaming.

The second man lunged for me, probably thinking a hostage would help. Blade moved faster than thought, gun reversing, striking the attacker's temple with the butt. The man crumpled at my feet.

The third tried to run. Tank clotheslined him in the doorway, dropping him hard.

It was over in seconds. Three threats neutralized with surgical precision. No hesitation, no excess violence, just devastating efficiency.

"Clear the building," Blade ordered his brothers, never taking his eyes off me. "Call the sheriff. These fuckers are done."

Phoenix and Tank dragged the men out, already on phones, coordinating cleanup. And then we were alone, Blade still standing in the doorway, gun holstered, chest heaving.

"You used yourself as bait." Not a question. An accusation wrapped in barely controlled fury.

"I ended it."

"You could have been killed."

"But I wasn't. Because you came." I stepped over the unconscious attacker, moving toward him. "You'll always come for me, won't you? Even when you're pushing me away, even when you think you're too damaged—you'll always protect me."

"Tiffany—"

"Shut up." I reached him, hands fisting in his shirt. "I'm done with your excuses. Done with you deciding what I can handle. I just faced down three criminals. I watched you shoot someone to protect me. And you know what? I'm not running. I'm not scared. I'm just pissed that you think I'm too weak for your world when I just proved I'm not."

"You're not weak." His hands came up to frame my face. "You're the strongest woman I know. That's the problem. You're so fucking strong you make me weak."

"Good." I pulled his head down. "Be weak for me. Let me be strong for you. Stop fighting this."

He kissed me like a drowning man finding air. Desperate, consuming, all his control finally shattered. His hands tangled in my hair, tongue claiming my mouth, body pressing me against the doorframe.

"My place," he growled against my lips. "Now."

The ride to his apartment passed in a blur of desperate touches at red lights, his hand gripping my thigh, my fingers tracing the muscles of his back through his shirt. The tension that had been building for days felt ready to explode.

Inside his apartment, he kicked the door shut and pressed me against it, mouth finding my throat.

"Tell me to stop," he said against my skin. "Last chance."

"Never." I pulled his shirt up, needing skin. "I'm never telling you to stop again."

He lifted me easily, carrying me to his bedroom, but I pushed him down onto the bed when we got there, straddling his lap.