Chapter 4 - The Inspection
"Don't," Rowan gasped, rolling away from him, her back hitting the feed bins. She curled her knees to her chest, cradling her left arm, her teeth chattering uncontrollably from shock. "Don't touch me."
Declan didn't move. He remained on one knee, staring down at his red-stained palm under the amber beam of the flashlight he had set on the floor.
Slowly, deliberately, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, testing the consistency of the fluid.
"That's not from a horse kick," he said. His voice was lower now, dropped into an octave that made the hair on the back of Rowan’s neck stand up. "Horse hooves crush bone. They tear skin. They don't leave oxidized blood this dark."
He reached out.
"Get away from me!" Rowan spat, lashing out with her right boot.
Declan caught her ankle in mid-air. His grip was an iron shackle. Without an ounce of wasted motion, he twisted his wrist, throwing her off balance, and leaned his full weight over her, pinning her against the wall with his forearm pressed across her collarbone—just below her throat, avoiding the injured side with terrifying anatomical precision.
"You have five seconds to stop fighting me," Declan whispered, his face inches from hers. His gray eyes were flat, devoid of mercy. "Or I will break your other arm and carry you into the house like a sack of oats."
"Try it," she hissed through bloodied lips.
Declan didn't take the bait. With his free hand, he reached down to the neck of her sweater. He hooked two fingers into the wool and ripped it down the seam.
The fabric tore away, revealing the saturated tactical gauze, the crude fishing-line stitches, and the black, necrotizing puncture wound where a 9mm Parabellum slug had entered her flesh six days ago.
Declan’s breath stopped.
He stared at the wound. Then his eyes drifted up to her face, slow and terrifyingly lucid.
"Through-and-through," he muttered. "Close range. Twenty yards or less. Shot from an elevated angle."
Rowan stopped struggling. The secret was dead. The exhaustion she had held at bay for a week came crashing down, a tidal wave that wiped out her legs, her lungs, her pride.
"Who shot you, Rowan?"
"Does it matter?" she choked out.
Declan leaned closer, until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
"It matters," he said, "because nobody brings someone else’s blood feud onto Ashgrove land. And nobody lies to my face for seven days while bleeding out in my stalls."
He stood, releasing her ankle. Before Rowan could attempt to crawl, he slipped one arm under her knees and the other behind her uninjured shoulder, lifting her off the concrete in a single, effortless motion.
"Put me down," she whispered, her head falling back against his chest despite herself. Her body had nothing left to offer.
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"Quiet," Declan said, carrying her out of the barn into the torrential Irish rain. "Save your breath. You’re going to need it when I pull those rotten stitches out."
***
