Still Not Yours: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  Milah scoffs softly. “How am I supposed to know –”

  “Just come on,” I bite off, then bolt across the tarmac at a tight clip, staying just far enough ahead to lead them, but close enough to defend.

  I’m grateful for James. He understands tactics, can plot coolly in a tense situation, and knows how to keep the civilians just informed enough to save their lives without confusing them or weighing them down. Why half an arm’s length between everyone?

  So we’re not a large enough cluster to make an easy target, but not so far apart that they can pick out individual bodies for a clear shot, either. I’ve always planned for the eventuality that I would have to protect my daughter from being shot.

  That doesn’t mean I don’t want to kill the person or people who put her in this situation.

  I can’t let myself be distracted by Em right now, or by Liv. The best thing I can do, the best way I can care for them, is to keep myself focused and tight.

  I’m not Em’s father right now, or Liv’s fake lover. I’m a hunter seeking prey, scanning for any hint of movement, waiting for that one rustle in the grass or tell-tale sound that marks a fatal mistake and shows me where to close in for the kill. They thought they had cornered, defenseless victims.

  They’re about to find out how wrong they are.

  We’re a few yards out from the air traffic control tower when that sense of something wrong redoubles. Through the windows, the low outbuilding is dark, as if it’s unoccupied – but I know I heard voices communicating with the pilot on descent. Even if there’s only one person manning their lonely station, someone should be inside with the lights on, consoles up.

  The hairs all over my body prickle, rising up as if sensing for another presence. I move in a quick, silent sidestep to flatten myself against the wall next to a window, and gesture quickly for everyone to follow. James herds them in and lines them up along the wall, ushering them down below the windows and out of line of sight from inside. I slip my hand inside my leather jacket, curling my hand around the grip of the Beretta slotted into my shoulder holster, and lean carefully to the side to catch a glimpse inside the building.

  Only for three men to step out from inside the hangar behind us, the first gunshot zinging loud, whizzing over my head like a furious hornet.

  Instinct takes over.

  I don’t even feel my body move. I’m just flattened against the wall one second, and the next I'm between them, my people, my family, and these punked-out assholes in their ripped jeans and torn jackets, holding their guns like they learned how to shoot from a decades-old mafia flick.

  I trust James has them covered – he’s already herding them forward at a crouching run, around the corner of the building, Milah’s scream echoing over the night, Liv and Em almost worrisomely silent – but it’s my job to keep them safe.

  I'm their shield, even if it means using my own body.

  And as I step out into the open, all emotion leaves that body. There’s only the slow-time tracking of my arm as I pull my Beretta from its holster and aim. Only the knowledge that it doesn’t matter if I’m hurt, if I bleed, if I die, so long as I fulfill my mission to protect them.

  This is who I am, under the skin.

  This is why Crystal drifted away long before death ever took her.

  Because she couldn’t look into the eyes of a man who didn’t fear death, and not fear him instead.

  A pound of pressure on the trigger. The slightest squeeze of my finger. The recoil in my hand, sharp slow motion, the burst of smoke and spark of fire and the bullet flying out.

  Time crawls, stops...then races forward as the bullet strikes one of the three men in the shoulder and he drops with a scream, his shot going wide and far afield. Even as the other two swing guns on me, I’m aiming again. Victory in a firefight requires calm. Detachment.

  The pure and focused intent to make sure every hit is a kill shot.

  You don't win shootouts acting like some crazed asshole spraying bullets everywhere and hoping.

  A bullet zips past my shoulder, close enough where I feel the force of it through my jacket. I sidestep, ever a moving target, and once more sight down the barrel, taking aim.

  Calculating. Processing. Focused.

  One cold, methodical decision after another in a chain of events that ends in my finger tightening on the trigger once, twice, recoil and bodies dropping and blood that looks black as it sprays against the darkness of the night.

  I wait just long enough to make sure they’re not getting back up – I don’t care if they’re dead or alive, just that they can’t hurt my people anymore – before turning to follow James and the others around the building's side.

  James has gathered everyone to one side of the door, and flattened himself against the door’s very edge. I sweep a quick glance to make sure no one’s injured. Em’s face is white as a sheet, but she looks calm, composed, even withdrawn. Like father, like daughter.

  Milah's cheeks are apple red, likely from screaming against her sister’s palm, her blue eyes wide and streaked with tears. Liv trembles, but holds steady, muffling Milah’s nonstop screams against her hand, her eyes dark and liquid and lost.

  For just a moment our gazes meet, and something strikes that emotionless emptiness inside me, some dark and terrible pang.

  I can’t read her. I can’t see myself reflected in her eyes. I can't fucking do it now.

  I can’t even tell if she still sees a man, or a demon darkness wearing human skin.

  A sound from inside tells me I don’t have time to wonder. I take up a flanking position on the other side of the door. James has his Ruger drawn, cocked and ready. On my nod, he kicks the door open and comes in hot on my heels as I shoulder into the room gun first.

  It's pitch black, save for tiny power lights on the edges of a few consoles, but someone’s here.

  I feel them. Breathing. Waiting.

  It’s like I can hear the trickle of sweat pouring down their spines, the nervous fear chilling until it’s like a cold kiss on the back of their necks. I can taste the sourness on the air.

  “James,” I whisper, and the lights flood on in a sudden burst as he flicks the switch.

  I’m ready. The man standing over the shaking air traffic controllers with a pump-action shotgun isn’t.

  He winces, swinging the shotgun toward me with a cry, squinting against the light and swearing. One of the air traffic controllers, huddled in her chair and bent over her console with her hands on the back of her neck, lets out a trembling whimper.

  I shoot Mr. Shotgun in the thigh without a second’s hesitation, the recoil vibrating and stinging against my palm.

  The other air traffic controller screams, his eyes rolling back in his head as his body slumps from the chair to the floor in a dead faint.

  I drop down and check his pulse, then check Mr. Shotgun’s. He’s still breathing, but unconscious. Losing a lot of blood from his femoral artery, spreading in a red sea across the floor.

  I want to question him, but he won’t be waking up for a while.

  We can’t risk taking him with us when that could bring an entire army down on our heads. But there’s a tattoo on his neck. I know it, a gang sign, subtle enough to pass off as nothing unless you recognize it.

  Three neat dots arranged in an equilateral triangle. The three corners of a Pilgrim’s tricorne.

  I guess Lion’s a history buff.

  We kidnap a Pilgrim, we’ll be dead by morning.

  If it were just myself, I’d risk it for the intel alone, the answers – but it’s not just me.

  I have three non-combatants on my hands, and that’s what makes my decision.

  Standing, I catch James' eye again. We have an unspoken rhythm that comes from familiarity, each of us knowing what we’re best at, and right now, it’s James’ cool composure in the face of even the worst danger, the way he has of exuding a sort of icy killer charm, that’s needed to manage the task at hand.

  James inclines his
head, then steps over to the shaking woman behind the console. His Ruger disappears into his suit coat, and he offers a brief, formal smile. “You’ll have to pardon me for intruding, Miss. Are you hurt?”

  The air traffic controller shakes her head. “N-no...”

  “Excellent. Then I’ll need you to do me the courtesy of calling the local authorities, please. We won't be staying, but here’s my card so the police can get in touch with us for a statement.”

  He retrieves a business card from his breast pocket and holds it out to the woman with two fingers. She stares at him as if he’s grown a second head, while he lets out a dry, patient sigh.

  “You’ll want to hurry, Miss. Without paramedics, the man we just shot may die. Two others outside are likely in similar condition. I’d really rather not have to testify in a self-defense case.”

  The woman reaches out, taking the card in wavering fingers, her mouth quivering like she’s about to cry. “Wh-who are you?”

  James’ thin smile returns. “Enguard Security.” He sweeps a brief, mocking bow. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  I roll my eyes and slip my Beretta back into the holster. I don’t think we’ll see any more Pilgrims, or the gunshots would have brought them running, but I can’t shake the sense of alertness that says we’re not out of danger yet.

  I turn back to Liv, Em, and Milah. Milah has flattened herself against the wall inside the door and sunk down it, hugging her knees to her chest. Liv is crushed against the wall as well, but she’s got her arms around Em – and Em clings to her like a baby monkey, burying her face in Liv’s side, while Liv gently strokes her back and whispers wordless things and watches me with that same unreadable, wide-eyed gaze.

  Fuck.

  I can’t do this right now.

  There’s no room for the ripping feeling inside me.

  I sink down to one knee in front of Milah. She’s not quite looking at me, she’s more looking through me, her eyes vacant with shock.

  I take both her hands, trying to get her to focus, trying to ground her, speaking slow and steady.

  “Milah.” When I say her name, she jerks sharply, her pupils constricting and locking on me, but she says nothing. “Where are your people?”

  She starts to make shaky sounds, but then stops, her lips tight. She shakes her head, eyes welling, fingers clutching at mine, and I squeeze them back gently. I don’t have words of reassurance in me when I’m like this, but I can at least promise with touch I’m here, I’m protecting you, you’re safe. I have you, and I’m not letting go.

  “Milah,” I repeat. Keep her focused with her name. “I need you to be calm right now. I need you to concentrate. You arranged for a car to meet us here, didn’t you?”

  It takes long moments before she answers. She nods slowly, rigidly, then stammers out, “Y-yes.”

  “Can you call them again? Find out where they are?”

  Again a delay. She’s in shock, and she’s going to need time to recover from this.

  I have a feeling, despite my suspicions about her motivations, that this is the first time the blood and danger truly became real to her. After her run-in with death last year, she must've thought the worst of it was over and she was invincible.

  I never thought I’d find myself feeling sorry for a diva like Milah Holly, but even divas are allowed to be scared.

  But she must have some inner reserve of strength, because something snaps in her eyes and she nods a bit more firmly. “O-okay. I'll call.”

  Then she pulls her hands free from mine and fumbles inside her jacket until she pulls out a Motorola in a hot pink case. With clumsy fingers, she stabs at the screen, then lifts it to her ear. Distantly, I hear the ringtone repeating.

  But I also hear something else, faint and far away – a hint of melody, and I lift my head, turning it toward the window.

  Milah pulls the phone away from her ear, the call dead-ends, and that thin hint of sound stops. She shakes her head. “Nobody’s answering.”

  “Try again,” I murmur, this time straining to listen even harder.

  There: a repetitive jingle, some snatch of a pop song, stopping and starting over and over again, outside. Not close by, but not too distant, either. Maybe on the deserted road running alongside the airstrip. I glance over my shoulder at James.

  “You hear that?”

  He’s already striding toward the door, meticulously adjusting his cufflinks. “On it.”

  As James slips out into the night, I transfer my attention back to the three girls in front of me. Em’s finally peeking out from where she’s buried herself in Liv, watching me with dark, questioning eyes asking more than I can answer right now.

  This is the second time, though, that Liv immediately moved to protect Em over herself, even though my daughter’s not even a target. This time, too, she extended her quiet strength to Milah, one hand even now rubbing her sister’s back while her inquisitive gaze seems to ask me what the next step is like a soldier awaiting orders.

  There’s a hidden iron core inside this girl. Untested, maybe buried so deep she’s not even aware of it herself, but it’s something born not of hardship or experience but a certain strength of character.

  Liv isn’t nearly as helpless as she thinks – and I’m grateful to her for being there for Em when I’m too deep in mission mode to take that on.

  “We’re going to get out of here,” I say, keeping my voice in that same even tone. Keep calm, and the others will too. “The men who attacked us are Pilgrims. Either they’re more reckless than we thought, or they’ve got connections. This isn't a place we want to be, in case more of them show up before the police do. The cops can always come to us. I’ve looked over security at Milah’s place, and it should be enough to keep us safe until we can go back home.”

  Em pipes up, “Why can’t we just get on the plane and go home?”

  “Because I don’t know or trust that pilot, love, and we don’t have air clearance. We’ll go home once people I do trust are here to escort us.”

  “Mr. Strauss?” she asks softly, and even when I’m empty inside I can’t help but smile.

  “Mr. Strauss,” I confirm. “But until then, we’ll lock down Milah’s place and stay low.”

  The air traffic controller speaks tentatively at my back. “The police and an ambulance are on their way.”

  “That’s good,” I respond. “I want you to tell them what happened here. My friend and I are with a private security company and licensed for concealed carry both in Washington state and British Columbia. We acted today to defend our clients from criminals in a violent attack. Please tell the police to use the number on that card to get in touch with us.”

  The air traffic controller still looks like she’ll pass out any second, but she nods a little too quickly and clutches the card to her chest. “Okay,” she whispers, then adds tentatively, “And...thank you.”

  I don’t understand what she’s thanking me for, until my gaze catches on the man bleeding out on the floor, the scent of his blood a cold, sticky metallic hint in the air conditioned room.

  She’s thanking me for saving her life.

  I'm still clueless after all these years.

  Don’t know what to do when someone thanks me for hurting someone else, even if it’s for the only reasons that could ever be the right ones.

  I’m saved from figuring out how to respond by James, who ducks back inside with a look of weary exasperation, straightening his tie. “There’s an SUV parked outside, roughly fifty yards from the exit gate,” he says dryly, though there’s a touch of a sardonic edge to it. I’m not sure why until he continues, “Two men outside of it, unconscious from blunt force trauma, keys in the ignition.” His gaze cuts to Milah. “I presume, since the jumble of letters on the vanity plate approximately translates to ‘BAD BITCHMOBILE' –” he pronounces it as precisely and articulately as if giving a valedictorian speech, “ – that this would be your vehicle?”

  Milah flushes scarlet up to he
r hairline and shrinks down with a sheepish nod, staring at him.

  James’ lips curl coolly at the corners. “Excellent. It seems the interlopers subdued your men to prevent intervention, but their injuries don’t look particularly severe. We can gather them and be on our merry way.”

  That’s our cue to move. Between James and I, we round everyone up, keeping them tight between us and heading out at a quick, militaristic trot.

  We head through the chain-link fence, out to the road, where the SUV sits with its doors open, headlights bright, flooding the night. Two burly men in suits slump against the front and back driver’s side tires.

  I check their pulses just in case. They're strong.

  The bloody spots on the backs of their heads are small, barely breaking the skin, and they’re already starting to groan toward consciousness as James and I heft them into the rear storage space and settle them with their jackets folded under their heads.

  James takes the wheel, stealing Milah’s phone to get her address and borrow her GPS, while I settle in the back seat with everyone else. It’s a tight fit with two grown women, one girl, and me, but if anything goes wrong as the car speeds smoothly through the night, I’d rather be close by and able to shield them.

  The moment she has her seatbelt on, Em latches onto my side like a burr, curling her fingers in my jacket. “Daddy.”

  I shouldn’t crack. I can’t fucking crack, not until we’re behind secure walls at Milah’s villa, but this is my daughter, dammit. And she’s just come far too close to being shot.

  Everything I've repressed blows through that wall of ice in a burst of raw emotion: love, fear, relief, gratitude.

  I cup Em’s sweet little face in my palms, searching her over, looking for even so much as a scratch, but I’m just as afraid of the kind of damage that can’t be seen on the surface when her eyes well and she chokes back a sob.

  “Em,” I murmur. “Em, honey, tell me you’re all right.”

  She hiccups, eyes spilling over, but forces a smile, brave and bright and wonderful and I’m so, so fucking proud of her. So glad I haven’t lost her today.

  “I’m f-fine,” she says, then sniffles and rubs at her nose. “I promise I’m okay.” Her smile strengthens. “You should’ve let me help. I could’ve taken one of them.”