Page 79 of Guarding Colton’s Witness

He was already hers.

Chapter 33

The house was quiet, the kind of hush that settles over everything just after midnight. Next to her, Ryan’s breathing was that of a man deeply asleep. She hadn’t slept a wink. Their earlier conversation was on repeat in her mind like a broken record.

Lord help her, she wanted to believe him when he said he’d never neglect his family. He’d said that with conviction in his voice. That wasn’t the only part of that conversation that was keeping her awake. It was also the other thing he’d said.

“Whether that family is with you or someone else.”

The thought of him with someone else made her want to find that faceless someone and tell her to get lost, that Ryan was hers. Except he wasn’t because she was too afraid. She could still remember birthdays when her father had promised to be there, but then he wouldn’t appear. There was an emergency at the hospital. A patient needed him. His pager would go off. She’d grown to hate that pager that was always on his belt.

She closed her eyes and pressed the heel of her palm against her forehead, wanting to push the memories of an absent father away. She’d taken her mother’s advice to heart and had made a promise to herself. No doctors for her. No more waiting at the window for someone who wasn’t coming.

Yet, Ryan made her want things, a home and children with him. But she’d seen this story before. Knew how it ended. What if she believed him and a few years down the road, he proved to be just like her father?

Matti turned her head into the pillow, trying to smother the tears that stung her eyes. Afraid she was going to sob and wake him, she eased out of bed. She headed to the kitchen to get a glass of water. She was halfway through the living room when she froze mid-step. What was that noise? The doorknob jiggled. Once. Twice. Then harder. Her stomach dropped. They were here.

“Wyatt!” she screamed.

The unmistakable crack of wood splitting shot through the house. The doorframe gave way under the force of a shoulder slam—then another—and then the door burst inward, splinters flying like shrapnel. The sound was violent and wrong, a pop that echoed off the walls. The alarm blared, hurting her ears.

Two men stumbled inside. Meth thin, eyes wild and glassy. One held a crowbar, the other a knife glinting in the light from the moonlight filtering in behind them.

“Where’s the boy?” the one with the knife said.

Her heart stopped, then launched into overdrive as she stood, rooted to the floor. It took a few precious seconds to get her feet unstuck but finally, they were moving, and she ran to the hallway.

Wyatt raced past her, gun drawn. “Stay back, Matti.” His voice was low, lethal. Cop-mode. “Police!”

Matti froze in the doorway as the man with the knife lunged.

Wyatt didn’t hesitate. He fired, but the shot went wide as the attacker slammed into him, knocking his arm up. The bullet punched a hole in the drywall. The gun flew from Wyatt’s hand, skidding under the couch.

The knife arced toward him. Wyatt twisted sideways, catching the man’s wrist mid-swing and wrenching it with brutal precision. The blade clattered to the floor. Wyatt drove his elbow into the man’s temple before he could recover, sending him crashing over the coffee table, one of the legs snapping on impact.

Ryan pushed past Matti, stopping at the living room threshold just long enough to take in the chaos. “Go in the bedroom and lock the door!” he barked before diving into the fray.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her brother was bleeding, and Ryan… God, Ryan only had one good hand.

Crowbar guy lunged at him with a wild roar.

Ryan ducked, and the man slammed shoulder-first into the wall, cracking the drywall. But he barely reacted, meth or whatever had him jacked to the ceiling. He spun, swinging the crowbar again in a vicious arc.

Ryan dodged the first blow, but the second caught his injured wrist. He grunted in pain and dropped to one knee.

Crowbar guy lifted the weapon overhead to finish the job.

“No!” Matti cried.

She snatched up the nearest object—a glass vase—and slammed it into the back of the man’s head. It didn’t shatter. It thudded, sending a sharp vibration through her arms.

Still, it stunned him long enough. Ryan surged up and drove his shoulder into the man’s gut, slamming him into the side table. A lamp toppled and exploded on the floor. The crowbar fell from the man’s hands, clanging across the hardwood.

With a snarl, Wyatt was back on his feet, a small gash bleeding on his temple. “Doc, move!”

Ryan dived aside just as Wyatt barreled into the attacker, slamming him against the wall. A picture frame crashed to the floor.

The struggle was short and violent, fists, knees, the sharp crack of a head into plaster. Wyatt got behind the man and locked in a choke hold, unrelenting.