31. Marie
31
MARIE
If I shut my eyes, I can almost pretend this is a nightmare. But my ribs ache from being slammed around a second ago. My head pulses from compression on my carotids. When researching one of my novels, I learned that’s a bad way to hold someone if you’re choking them for kink.
Funny the things you think about when you’re dying.
Crow’s hand is wrapped around my throat. I can’t back away—the truck is behind me. I’ve tried kicking him, but he’s too nimble. It’s like he hasn’t fought at all tonight. He’s stronger than I expected and very quick.
He leans against me, pressing me to the truck with his body. He closes in, dragging his nose against the side of my neck to sniff me. When I feel his interest harden against my thigh through our clothes, I’m grateful he’s choking me. It means I can’t throw up.
But then his grip loosens. He doesn’t let go, not completely. His hold is rough enough to bruise, but not enough to cut off my air anymore. I gasp hard to fill my lungs. Now, he isn’t strangling me so much as claiming me. “That’s right, little one. You belong to me now.”
I cough, and his hand goes from claiming to merely resting on my throat. When there’s enough air in my lungs, and I’m not about to black out, I growl, “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
He backhands me across my face. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make tears spring from my eyes. He snatches my throat again. His face is close enough to mine that I can see the absolute lack of humanity in his eyes. It was that look that froze me the night at the library parking lot. “You’re a smart girl. If I am out of my mind, shouldn’t you play nice?”
I hate that he has a point.
And then he’s dragging me away from the battered truck that’s become my last point of refuge. Every footstep he forces me to take feels heavier than the last, as though he’s parading his dominance in front of the few men left standing.
I can’t see Trick from this angle, but I hear his strangled shouts behind us. My heart clenches, remembering the glimpse I caught of him on the ground, bleeding from a gunshot wound to his leg. I can still see the crimson stain spreading over his jeans. I can’t picture him subdued like that—Trick is always in motion, always cracking jokes even in the direst moments. For him to be pinned to the dirt, howling my name, sends a chill down my spine.
Hugo is out of sight too, but I know he’s still fighting somewhere on the far side of the yard. I hear the clash of bodies and the ragged grunts that come with grappling. Over it all, gunfire occasionally rips the air, sharp cracks echoing from inside our home. The men who forced their way in are scattered, some unconscious, some backing away, some still in combat.
I tell myself we’re close to victory, but I have no real proof.
The person who truly terrifies me is Sam, or the lack of him. He’s inside the house—my house—searching for Dad. The father who spent years preaching about hope and redemption, now possibly in desperate need of a miracle.
I imagine him in one of the back bedrooms, blindsided by men with guns. A wave of nausea rises in my stomach. I try to push it down, reminding myself that Sam is skilled, that he knows how to move silently. Still, the dread won’t subside. Not when the gunshots still ring out. I can’t bear the idea that Dad and Sam might die in the very living room where I used to do my homework.
Crow yanks on my shirt collar, urging me forward. He’s not content to linger near the truck. He wants to haul me further into the darkness at the yard’s edge, where the glare of the porch light won’t reach. His breath warms the shell of my ear when he leans in to speak, voice dripping with cruelty. “You should’ve stayed inside that truck, sweetheart. By walking out, you just handed yourself over.”
“Why do you think I did it, genius? Let my dad go. Let the men leave. I’ll come peacefully?—”
He hauls back like he’s about to hit me again. But then he cracks a laugh so sharp it hurts. “Have you been paying attention? This fight is ours. Your father, your men, they’re all dead. They just don’t know it yet.”
I don’t speak. Speaking would give the game away.
My fingers inch toward the pocket of Sam’s jacket that I’m still wearing. We pass the remnants of a smashed flowerpot near the front porch steps. My father used to keep hibiscus there, and a pang strikes my chest at the memory of him dutifully watering them in the morning. Now shards of terra-cotta litter the grass, glinting under the flickering light.
Crow drags me a few more steps, aiming for the cluster of trees that shield the neighbor’s property line. He wants to vanish into the night with me, probably to force me into a car or do something worse. My pulse races.
I can’t let that happen.
A shout erupts from behind us—Hugo or Trick, I’m not sure. The yard teems with roiling shapes, men battered and spent, swinging desperately. Another muzzle flash ignites near the porch. I don’t look, but I hear a grunt of pain. My stomach knots. If it’s Hugo hurt, or Trick again, or some new horror, I can’t dwell on it now. I have to focus on the moment at hand.
Not another step.
My voice is weak and tired as I murmur, “I think…I think I’m about to fai…” I force my body to go limp, letting Crow shift his weight to accommodate me.
He grunts now, having to take on some of my weight. His grip momentarily slackens, and his eyes flick away, scanning for threats. “If I have to carry you, I’ll make you regret it.”
I breathe deeply, counting the frantic hammer of my heartbeats, preparing for the single shot I have. Just need to drag myself down a little more?—
“Keep moving,” Crow snarls, yanking me forward.
But I pivot, sliding out of his grip, and drive the blade up into his groin. I don’t slash or stab deep—I keep the razor-sharp tip right at the most vulnerable spot of his entire anatomy. He was erect until he felt the tip.
God only knows what he was dragging me away for.
He inhales sharply, freezing in mid-step, face turning from smug to alarmed in a split second. “The fuck?”
I exhale. “Not one move,” I murmur, voice quivering only slightly. “Unless you want me to slice off your favorite part.”
Crow stands stock-still, sweat beading at his temples. “You’re playing a stupid game, little girl. Don’t think I won’t snap your neck if you so much as?—”
“Shut up,” I interrupt, pressing the blade a millimeter deeper. He hisses, a bead of sweat rolling down his cheek. “Do you want to keep talking, or do you want to keep your dick?”
His breath rattles in his chest, nostrils flaring. He flicks his gaze around, presumably checking if any of his henchmen are close enough to jump me. But we’ve drifted far enough from the main brawl that he’s basically alone. He wanted privacy for whatever he was going to do to me.
“Where was all this attitude the night we met, huh?” He stares into my eyes, as though he can see the real me. “Cuz this feels like you’re pretending to be a hero?—”
I slash the knife upward—not for his dick, but for the hand that had started to move toward me. He jerks it back as if he touched a hot pan on the stove. I shove the knife back against his junk. “You’re right about that. I’m not a hero. I’m just the girl with a knife next to your dick. So should you play nice?”
“You won’t kill me. That’s not who you are.”
I tilt my head, letting him see the steel in my eyes. “You have no idea who I am. Let me show you.” I dig in a little deeper.
“Fine! Fuck, fine!” He holds his hands up. His blood drips down his elbow and puddles on the sugar sand.
“You should have walked away when you had the chance, Crow.”
“Where was all this attitude the night I came to the library, huh?” He stares into my eyes.
“You were smarter that night. You came after only me. Tonight, you hurt my dad. You hurt my men. If I’d been the only one on your list tonight, you’d probably have me.” I clutch his throat, feeling him swallow against my palm as I squeeze. “But you weren’t smart tonight.”
His voice chokes out, “What do you want?”
“Your men are losing this fight,” I snap. “Hugo’s taking them down, Trick’s still breathing, and Sam’s inside saving my father. If you want to keep breathing, you’ll do exactly what I say.”
He snarls, voice tight, “Then say it!”
“Order them to fall back, to leave this house, and never step foot in Auclair again. Or I finish what I started here.”
His glare intensifies, a mixture of fury and humiliation. “You think I?—”
I apply more pressure on his throat, on the knife. Not enough to break the skin, but definitely enough to scare him. He flinches, eyes widening as the blade threatens that vital area. My own heart is pounding so loudly I swear he can hear it, but I keep my cold expression locked in place.
Over his shoulder, I see a swirl of movement—a few of his men drift uncertainly across the yard, perhaps hearing the commotion. They see me pressed close, see the glint of the blade at Crow’s groin, and freeze. Fear or confusion halts them.
One even starts to lift a gun, but I hiss, “Don’t even think about it,” loud enough for them to hear.
The man hesitates, glancing at Crow for a signal, but Crow can’t spare him a glance—he’s too busy ensuring I don’t thrust the knife.
“This is your last chance,” I say, voice trembling from the adrenaline. “Call them off. Now.” My stomach twists at the possibility of him refusing, forcing me to cut him. I’ll do it without hesitation. Letting him go free to hurt us more is unthinkable.
He bares his teeth, fury making his jaw clench so tight I see a vein pop near his temple. Sweat rolls down his neck. For a moment, I think he might risk it, might try to grab my arm or headbutt me. If he does, it’ll be a toss-up who ends up more hurt. But that flicker of genuine terror remains in his eyes, telling me he’s weighing the cost.
“You’ll regret this,” he growls, voice thick with malice. I don’t waver. My hands are shaking, but the point of the blade remains pressed flush to his groin. One slip, and he might never fuck or walk right again. Or live. He gets it.
I snarl, “Tell them.” Then I release his throat so he can project his voice.
He exhales sharply through his nose, casting a quick look at the men who stand around us, unsure what to do. Another bullet whizzes by from across the yard, scaring a few into crouching. None of them want to approach while I have their boss by the short hairs. Literally.
A final beat of tense silence passes, and at last, Crow raises his unwounded hand high, signaling to the sniper. Those bullets stop, but more sound off in the house. His chest heaves with ragged breaths. He must hate doing this, but it’s survival, pure and simple. He locks eyes with me, a promise of future vengeance behind them, then shouts, “Fall back!”
Some of his men blink, confused, blinking in the half-dark. Hugo is presumably dealing with a few near the porch. Trick might be moaning in the dirt. None are quite sure if they should obey. Crow’s jaw tightens, fury twisting his lips into a snarl. “Fall the fuck back!” he yells a second time, voice cracking with the strain. “Now!”