Springing off the douche, I tore through the snow and skidded across the cement. I hit the side of my SUV and rebounded. My head shut down as I flew through the open door, my eyes scanning the room for Syd.

Footfalls thudded upstairs and a cry rang out, stopping my heart. Shit, that sounded like Syd. Oh, my God, that sounded like her. My hands were already forming fists and pure rage boiled my blood, turning to ice at the sound of a fucking gunshot from above. Oh, God—Syd. If she was hurt, I swore to fucking God, I’d kill the bastard. There’d be no stopping me.

Racing around the pool table, I made a beeline for the stairwell as feet pounded over the floor above and down the stairs. A second later, another fucker in a ski mask rushed out of the dark stairwell, drawing up short when he saw me. I knew it was Zach. It was his build. Half of his face showed through the torn, lower half of the ski mask. My gaze dropped to his hands. There was blood all over them.

I fucking lost it.

Launching myself across the room, I slammed into Zack and took him down. Punk-ass swung on me, but I dodged the strike. Grabbing the collar of his sweater, I pulled him up by one hand. My arm swung back and shot forward, connecting with his jaw. Once. Twice. Three times. He didn’t get one punch in. Fuck, no. The blows blurred into blood, split skin, and flares of dull pain. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to pummel him into an early grave, but when Zach’s head flopped back on his neck, I dropped him on the floor and forced myself to stand.

My hands were shaking, knuckles busted and raw.

Taking the next breath was hard, but not as hard as it was to step back from Zach. The only thing that made me do it was that I needed to get to Syd. Gunshot—oh, God. If she was hurt or…I would never forgive myself. It was as simple as that. I shouldn’t have left her here alone.

As I stepped over Zach, he rolled onto his side, moaning. I resisted the urge to kick him upside the head. Racing up the stairs, my heart was throwing itself against my ribs. “Syd!” I thought I yelled, but I choked on her name, choked on the possibility of what could’ve happened to her.

Barreling through the half-closed door, I skidded to a halt when I saw her.

She was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, staring at the dying fire, her arms wrapped around her waist. Dark hair fell forward, shielding her face. My stepdad’s shotgun lay across her knees.

“Sydney?”