“We should leave. First, I’ll call River and see if he can find out who that Charger is registered to,” said Tate, referring to his pride mate who was also a police officer. “It might take him a little time, because he hasn’t started his shift at the station yet.”
Havana pushed to her feet. “While you make your call, I’m going to thank the woman who saved my life.”
Afterward, they all exited the building. As Bailey hurried to her car with Corbin, Tate whispered something to Luke and Farrell, who then said their goodbyes and crossed to an SUV. Tate and Aspen stayed exceptionally close to Havana as she made a beeline for her car.
She swallowed on noticing the bloodstain on the ground. Her blood. She also noticed that Tate snarled at it, clenching his jaw so hard it had to ache.
“I’ll drive,” he declared. “I don’t want you girls alone.”
Havana frowned. “Shouldn’t you be with your bodyguards?”
“They’re going to drive in front of us. Deke and Isaiah will cover our rear.”
“There’s no need to—”
“Give me peace of mind. I can’t stop seeing the image of you collapsing to your knees with three fucking bullets in your body,” he said, looking sincerely tortured. “I need to be with you right now.”
Havana told herself to not be moved by his fear for her but, yeah, it didn’t work.
“Oh, take pity on him and hand him the keys,” said Aspen, sliding into the rear of the vehicle.
Too tired to argue with him and uncomfortable with standing out in the open after having been shot, Havana tossed him the keys. “All right. Have at it.”
His face went soft with approval. “That’s my girl.” He hopped into the driver’s seat.
Instead of riding shotgun, Havana slipped into the back of the car with Aspen. Maybe it was cowardly to not want to sit close to him, but whatever.
Tate was clicking on his seatbelt when his phone started to ring. He bucked up his hips, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and looked at the screen. He frowned and answered, “Yeah?” His body went absolutely rigid. He tapped the screen with his thumb, and then the sound of a voice filled the car.
“Did you get my message?”
Havana felt her eyes widen. Gideon.
“What message would that be?” asked Tate, his tone admirably calm given that he looked anything but.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard yet.” Gideon tutted. “I suppose you’ll find out soon.”
“Why not just tell me about this message, since you’re on the line?”
“I heard that the beautiful Miss Ramos visited a homeless shelter today.”
Tate’s free hand fisted. “She did.”
“Have you spoken to her since then?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that I heard there was a shooting in that area earlier and, well, you can never be too careful. You might want to be certain she’s alive and well.”
Tate glanced over his shoulder and held the phone closer to her. “Havana, Gideon wants to know if you’re alive and well?”
“Oh, I’m both, thanks,” she said.
Tate faced forward again. “Does that answer your question, Gideon?”
There was a long beat of silence. “I don’t know who that was, but I know it wasn’t Havana Ramos,” said Gideon.
Tate licked his front teeth. “Now, the trouble with drive-by shootings? The guy holding the gun can’t linger to make sure the deed has been done. So he misses if certain things happen. Like if the victim is taken to a healer fast enough to save their life. There’ll be no one to help you when I get my hands on you, Gideon,” Tate added, his voice deepening. “I will find out where you are. Then? Then you’re dead.” He rang off and hissed out a breath. “Son of a bitch called to gloat.”
“That guy so needs to meet a truly horrific demise,” said Aspen.
Tate switched on the engine. “On that we agree.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gripping the steering wheel a little too hard, Tate battled to keep a lock on the rage that churned in his belly. He’d been close to finding a small element of calm, but then fucking Gideon had called and wiped it away. The only thing keeping Tate sane right then was the woman sitting in the back of the car—his mate.
He kept sneaking glances at her in the rearview mirror as he drove, needing to drink her in, seeking to remind himself that she was right there. Breathing. Safe.
Even pale from blood loss, she didn’t look the slightest bit weak. Tired, maybe. But not delicate or fragile. Her inner strength always shined through—that light never dimmed. Even so, the need to coddle and cosset and soothe her was like a living thing inside him. He probably needed that more than she did.
He wanted to take her to his house. Wanted Havana in his lair, where he could keep a close watch over her, where she could have peace and quiet to relax. But he didn’t bother to say as much, because he knew she wouldn’t agree to it. She didn’t yet know that things had changed for him. Plus, Aspen and Bailey would want her close for a short while—there was no way they wouldn’t follow her if she went elsewhere.
His cat bared a fang at Tate, in a funk because the man wouldn’t take her to their domain. The animal was an elemental creature; he had no interest in the delicacies of the situation. He wanted Havana safe, and he believed the safest place she could be was his territory. He hadn’t yet shaken off the panic he’d felt on hearing she’d been hurt.
Now that Tate had faced the truth of who Havana was to him, he knew he didn’t have to worry that his feline would ever withdraw from her. His cat would never give her up. Not for anything. He’d kill for her, lay down his life for her, strive to make her happy, but never let her go.
Tate realized something else, too. His cat hadn’t pulled away from other females because he had commitment issues, he’d done it because he wanted only one woman—his true mate; the only female he’d ever trust to never betray him.
Tate wondered how she would react to his upcoming declaration that they were mates. She clearly hadn’t sensed it, or she’d have stated it at some point. Something was blocking the frequency of the bond on her end. It might not be easy to convince her that they were true mates, but he wouldn’t stop stating his case until she at least admitted he could possibly be right.
Again, he glanced at both his passengers via the rearview mirror. You would think that, given what had just happened, they’d be a wreck. Havana had almost died, and Aspen had been forced to have a front seat to the drive-by. But neither were curled up in protective postures or staring into space, lost in their thoughts. Both were sitting upright, as alert and sober as marines.
He’d expected Havana to have had at least a small freak out on hearing she’d almost died. But when she’d woken at the shelter earlier and he’d told her what happened, she hadn’t paled or panicked or gone into shock. She’d taken his news with a little too much composure. He couldn’t help but get the feeling that it wasn’t the first time she’d taken a bullet.
There were many things he didn’t know about Havana … because he’d never asked. It wasn’t that he’d been disinterested. She’d intrigued him from day one, and he’d had hundreds of questions on the tip of his tongue. He’d wanted to know her better. He’d wanted to know what made her tick, how she became a loner, and where she came from. Each time she’d volunteered a hint of information, it had taken everything he’d had not to ask her to elaborate. He’d held back for good reason, but it hadn’t been easy.