Chapter 39 Mine
THIRTY-NINE
MINE
JACOB
Lars roars as he rips free from the horde, fury wild and blinding. He lunges, knife flashing, but it’s rage, not skill, driving him. He swings wide.
Mistake number one.
I sidestep. Effortless.
He stumbles past, thrown off by his own momentum.
Mistake number two.
My hand snaps out, wrenching the machete from his grip before he can blink. His eyes widen, but too late—my fist slams into his gut, deep and hard.
He folds with a sharp wheeze.
My knee crashes into his face, snapping his head back. His body smashes against a thick tree trunk with a dull, solid thud.
Before he can slide down, I drive the machete straight through his gut, pinning him to the bark.
He screams—raw, primal, torn from somewhere rotten.
He thrashes, claws at the handle, but the blade’s buried deep. Blood pours from the wound, thick and relentless, draining him with every drop.
I let him feel it. Every second.
I kneel, pick up his knife, and grab his jaw, forcing him to meet my eyes. His breath rasps, uneven. Rage still burns in his stare, but it’s fading.
“Look at me,” I growl.
His gaze locks on mine.
“So,” I murmur, pressing the knife to his cheek, “you’re the one that licked my woman?”
His lips curl in a blood-slick sneer. He spits, the red smear sliding down his chin.
I press harder, steel biting skin.
“I don’t like when people touch what’s mine.”
I tilt his head toward the fight.
Leon boots an undead into da Vinci, knocking him off Lyla. She yanks her blade from his leg, breath sharp, and moves to Leon’s side—hacking, slashing.
Da Vinci wrestles under the weight of a massive, bear-like corpse, its death grip locked tight.
Lyla moves through the chaos like she owns it—blade flashing, firelight turning her into something untouchable. Dangerous. Divine.
“And she is mine.”
I force his jaw open, fingers gripping his tongue, yanking it past his teeth. He convulses, choking on the sound.
Steel touches the back of his tongue.
Earl holds the line behind me, buying me this moment.
“And since this,” I grit, voice like a blade, “touched what’s mine . . .”
His pupils blow wide. Panic floods his face. A gurgled plea dies in his throat.
“I get to take it.”
My hand saws slow, deliberate, dragging out every shred of agony. His scream is wet and broken, drowned in his own blood.
He spasms like a dying insect.
The severed tongue hits my palm—twitching, slick.
I look at it once, then hurl it into the horde still feeding on Pete’s corpse.
“Jesus,” Earl mutters.
Lars’s shrieks collapse into gurgled whimpers, then just air. Blood runs down his chin to his shirt.
The smell hits the horde like a flare. Vacant eyes turn toward their next meal.
I wipe the blade on my thigh and move toward the only thing here worth running to. The sounds of jaws tearing through flesh and Lars’s quiet cries of terror are behind me as Earl hands me back my machete.
“Now,” I say, “let’s go support my girl.”