Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty Five
Adrian
The first hit landed in exactly the wrong place.
Right in my side.
Not the ribs or the shoulder or the jaw.
Dead center in my wound.
Pain detonates so violently that the world whites out for half a second as I crash into the utility enclosure, and barely get my arm up before the next strike comes for my face. His fist glances off my forearm, hard enough to send a shock down to my wrist.
The next one goes right for my side again.
He knows. That is the first clear thought. He knows where I am hurt.
Maybe he saw the blood. Maybe he saw the way I favor the left side when I turn.
Either way, he knows my weak spot, and he is going to keep using it.
He drives in again, fast and low.
I pivot, or try to. My body is moving too slowly as I swim through the pain. It’s too much to set aside, too much to compartmentalize. Hell, it hurts more than the actual bullet did.
He catches me with a short, brutal punch to the side, directly over the dressing.
This time, I cannot swallow the sound. A strangled grunt tears out of me, and my knees nearly go.
He smiles.
I am going to kill him for that if I get the chance.
He comes in close, trying to trap my gun arm. I let him think he has it and slam my forehead into his nose. Cartilage gives, and blood spills hot across his upper lip.
He falls back a step, but it’s not nearly enough.
I go after him because I cannot let this become his fight. If he keeps distance, if he keeps circling and targeting the wound, I lose. Simple math. I need pressure. I need violence. I need to end it before blood loss and pain finish the work for him.
I drive him into the side of the house.
He takes the impact with a grunt, hooks an arm around my neck, and rams his knee into my side.
The pain is so sharp I almost vomit.
My grip loosens.
He feels it and does it again.
This time, something tears.
Something deeper than the superficial wound. Muscle maybe. Or healing tissue that was not ready for this.
Heat spills under my shirt.
Blood. Too much now, pouring out of me.
I punch him twice in the ribs, short and hard, but there is no strength behind the second one. He catches my wrist, twists, and my gun drops into the wet grass.
Damn it.
I slam my elbow into his throat.
He coughs, staggers, then comes back faster than he should.
Trained.
He is trained, and I am wounded.
That is the fight.
That is all of it.
A healthy version of me has ended this already.
This version of me is bleeding in Caterina Conti’s garden while the woman I love is locked in a safe room beneath the house, probably watching in horror at the scene before her.
Hating me for leaving.
Good. Let her hate me.
Hate is easier to survive than grief.
He swings again.
I slip it too slow, and his fist catches my jaw. My head snaps sideways. The world tilts, and I taste blood.
I drive my shoulder into his midsection and take him down.
We hit the ground hard.
Pain explodes through my side, through my ribs, up my back, into my teeth. For one second, the night disappears. There is only pressure and blood and the sound of my own breath tearing apart in my chest.
He rolls on top.
I block the first punch.
The second hits my cheekbone.
The third goes for my side again.
Smart bastard.
I catch his wrist with both hands before it lands, but my grip is weak now. He presses down, using his weight, his strength, the angle.
My arms tremble.
That is not good.
Once you start trembling in a fight, it’s over.
He knows it too.
His smile widens through the blood on his face. “You’re done.”
No accent I can place. American. East Coast, maybe.
I do not answer.
Talking wastes air.
I buck hard, twisting enough to throw him off balance. My side screams. The wound opens more, warm blood sliding under my shirt and down toward my waistband.
He shifts with me, stays on top, and drives his forearm into my throat.
Air cuts off.
I grab for his face, his eyes, anything. My fingers catch skin, scrape. He flinches.
He increases the pressure.
The edges of my world darken.
No.
Not like this.
Not pinned to the ground outside Caterina’s house by some nameless hired man while my people bleed on the lawn and the Contis wait behind a steel door.
No, damn it.
I reach for the knife at my belt, and I slam it into his thigh.
He screams, and the pressure lets up enough for me to breathe deep, slam my fist into his face.
If I’m going out, I’m going to do as much damage as possible on the way.
I go for another punch, but he blocks and slams my hand into the ground.
Then he’s leaning on my throat again. My lungs burn. I can hear my pulse in my ears now. Loud and slow.
Think.
There is always a way out. There is always leverage, angle, weakness, movement.
But my body is failing faster than my mind can solve it.
That is the truth, and I hate it.
I hate it more than I hate the man on top of me. More than I hate the blood loss, the pain, the dark.
I hate that I am not enough.
Not tonight. Not for her.
My vision narrows around his face.
I force my knee up, trying to strike anything I can reach. He shifts, absorbs it, then slams his fist into my side one more time.
This time, I hear myself make a broken sound of pain.
My hand twitches in the grass, inches from my fallen gun.
Too far.
I think of the safe room.
The children.
Teresa. How will she tell my mom?
Caterina.
Her face comes to me with startling clarity.
I see her in her office, chin lifted, dark eyes sharp, arguing with me about sight lines and flowers and whether I was allowed to make decisions about her life.
I see her laughing at dinner, candlelight in her hair, yellow roses on the table, the girls watching her like she hung the moon.
I see her standing in the moonlight, the robe shimmering down her body to pool at her feet.
I see her standing in front of me in the safe room, refusing to move until I said please.
Cat.
If this is it, that is the only thing I want to see.
Her face. Her stubborn mouth. Her dark eyes.
The way she looked at me when she told me to come back.
And I won’t.
I’ll be breaking my promise to her, but at least she’ll be safe.
I hold onto her as long as I can.
Her face swims into view one more time, and her mouth forms my name, though no sound can be heard.
Caterina, I think as my vision goes black.