“The Shot That Never Came”

The silent word hits me harder than a bullet.

My grip on the gun tightens, my finger hovering over the trigger. I can still do it. I can finish the job and escape before anyone realizes what happened.

But I don’t move.

I can’t.

The memories of us—of his hands on my skin, of whispered promises in the dark—rush back all at once.

You have one job, Selene. One. Job.

Damian turns back to Ivy, forcing himself to look at his bride. My stomach twists. I don’t know if it’s from anger, jealousy, or something else entirely.

Then—everything happens at once. A sharp crack splits the air.

A gunshot.

But it’s not from me.

My heart jolts as I watch the bullet slice through the air, aimed directly at Ivy Monroe.

The crowd gasps in horror. Someone screams. Ivy freezes, her perfect face twisting in shock.

Someone else is trying to kill her.

Before I can think, before I can act on instinct, my body moves on its own.

I leap from my hidden spot on the balcony, landing hard on the ground below. The impact sends a sharp pain up my legs, but I don’t care. My focus is on one thing.

Damian. I run straight toward him, shoving him out of the way. Another gunshot rings out. I feel the rush of air as the bullet narrowly misses him.

People are screaming now. The guests scatter, some ducking under tables, others running toward the massive church doors. The organ music cuts off abruptly, leaving only the sound of footsteps and panicked cries.

I land hard against Damian’s chest, my breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

His arms automatically wrap around me, strong and familiar. The scent of him—expensive cologne, something dark and woodsy—overwhelms my senses.

For a second, for just a second, it feels like the world stops. Like we’re back to what we used to be.

But then his body tenses. His grip on me tightens.

Realization. He knows who I am now. He knows why I’m here. And I know that I just made the biggest mistake of my life.

“Selene?” His voice is a low growl, full of disbelief.

Before I can answer, another gunshot. This time—it hits.

A loud cry rips through the chaos. I turn my head just in time to see Ivy Monroe collapse.

She clutches her side, her white dress stained with blood.

But the bullet didn’t hit her chest or her head. Whoever fired that shot… wasn’t aiming to kill. They were aiming to send a message. And that means someone else wants her dead.

But not as badly as I do.