Under the Heat of Sun

Three

“Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “you stay here.”

And before I could ask what was happening — he was gone. The front door opened and shut, the faint creak swallowed by the night.

I waited, every muscle in my body tense. My fingers gripped the edge of the curtain, but I couldn’t resist. I pulled it open just a sliver.

Declan moved like a shadow.

He crept along the porch, his steps measured, controlled, the way soldiers moved when they’d been trained to kill. He disappeared behind one of the wooden beams near the stables, his gun raised. Then, another truck rolled up. Two more men jumped out. Four in total now.

They weren’t locals — their posture, their clothing, everything screamed unfamiliar. I swallowed hard. One of them shouted something I couldn’t hear. Another laughed, the sound carrying over the wind. Declan waited until they were close enough — until the first man’s boot touched the gravel in front of the house — before he struck.

The first shot shattered the silence.

The man with the crowbar dropped instantly, collapsing into the dirt with a sound I didn’t want to name. The others shouted and dove for cover, firing back. The gunfire cracked through the air, echoing off the wide-open fields.

I ducked, my heart slamming against my ribs. But it was not just fear I was feeling, it was something else. I tried to clench my thighs and stop the intrusive thoughts in my mind.

No. This is violence, I should not feel this.

Then — silence again.

For a moment, I thought it was over. Then I heard it — the sound of heavy footsteps and a low grunt. Declan had left the gun. He was fighting them now. I dared to peek again. He was a blur of motion in the dark — faster, rougher, like he’d been born for it. His fists connected with one man’s jaw, then his elbow slammed into another’s throat. One went down, choking. The other swung a knife. Declan twisted, dodged, and disarmed him with a forceful kick that sent the blade flying into the dirt. He moved like every step was calculated — brutal, but deliberate.

But one of them got him.

The fourth man came from behind, a flash of metal glinting in his hand. Declan turned just in time to block the first blow, but the second caught him in the side. Not deep — but enough to make him stagger. He gritted his teeth, didn’t even cry out. Just pressed forward, grabbed the man by the collar, and slammed him into the fencepost hard enough to splinter the wood.

I gasped when I saw the smear of blood on his shirt.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked at the three bodies sprawled in the dirt, then turned — eyes cold, searching. The fourth man was gone.

I realized it a second too late. From the corner of the house, I heard a door slam open. I spun around. The back door — the one leading into the kitchen — had burst open. Heavy footsteps pounded against the hardwood floor. He was inside. I stumbled backward, my hand reaching for something, anything to defend myself with. My fingers closed around a lamp. The lights flickered from the wind outside, casting jagged shadows across the room.

Then, I saw him — one of the assailants, breathing hard, eyes wild. His hand gripped a knife. I froze, too terrified to scream. He lunged. I swung the lamp. It shattered against his shoulder, sparks flying as the bulb burst. He cursed and stumbled, giving me just enough time to run. I sprinted down the hallway, the sound of his footsteps close behind. My lungs burned. My heart pounded.

He caught the back of my sleeve once, yanking me backward, but I twisted, ripping the fabric and breaking free. I shoved open the nearest door — Declan’s office — and darted inside, locking it.

Then I pressed my back to the door, gasping, my entire body trembling.

The handle rattled violently.

“Come out,” the man hissed. “I’ll make it quick.”

Tears stung my eyes, but I pressed my hand over my mouth to silence my breathing.

Then I heard it. Another sound — heavier, sharper — coming from behind him. A thud. Then another.

The sound of someone being thrown into a wall.

The noise stopped. The silence that followed was deafening. I opened the door a fraction — just enough to see Declan standing over the man’s limp body. His chest rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths. Blood streaked his forearm, his shirt half untucked, one sleeve torn. He looked like something out of a nightmare — dangerous, unflinching, raw.

No! I should not be aroused, he might have just killed a man!

Then his gaze shifted to me. Our eyes met. Something in his expression softened for a heartbeat — but only barely.

He wiped the blood off his knuckles with a rag from his back pocket, never breaking eye contact.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low, rough from the fight.

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Good,” he said. “Because I need you to stay calm.”

He turned toward the door again, making sure the man on the floor was out cold. Then he stepped outside to check the others.

Through the window, I saw him drag the last one toward the gate, his movements methodical, efficient. He checked their truck, their plates — even their pockets. He was searching for something. By the time he returned, his jaw was set in that same rigid, unreadable line.

I stood there by the phone, still shaking.

“Who were they?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, he leaned against the wall, wiped his bloody hands clean, and said, “Someone sent them. But not from around here.”

The words hung between us like smoke. I swallowed hard, my mind already racing to the one person who might have the motive.

Jonathan.

Declan looked at me then — really looked — as if he could read every thought on my face.

“Get some rest,” he said quietly. “I’ll deal with this.”

He turned and walked out again, leaving me alone in the dim light of the office. I stared at the phone, my pulse still racing. My fingers trembled as I picked it up. The dial tone echoed in my ear, steady and unyielding. I pressed the number with shaking hands.

Once. Twice. Then again.

“Come on,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

The line rang.

And rang.

And rang.