Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“Hey, big guy,” I croak, my voice sounding fractured and thin when I finally reach his still body. “I got you. I’m right here.”
There is a terrifying amount of blood pooling beneath him.
This isn’t good. Not at all.
I press my shaking fingers against the side of his neck, trying desperately to find a pulse, but I can’t feel a single thing. Maybe I’m just hitting the wrong spot. I shift my grip, pushing harder against the cold skin, but still, I can’t find anything. No rhythm. No sign of life.
“No, no, no,” I whisper, a cold dread wrapping around my throat.
I move my fingers to his wrist, pressing in, but they keep sliding off.
“Marigold, run!” Storm roars from his cover, but the command cuts off into a harsh, strangled grunt when another gunshot goes off nearby.
I jerk my head over just in time to see Storm drop heavily to one knee, his face contorting in pain.
Through the thick, black plumes of smoke rising from the wrecked bikes and whatever improvised bomb they detonated in the road, steps the literal monster of my nightmares.
“Enough,” Damon roars, his voice carrying that familiar, aristocratic venom that makes my stomach violently turn. “Someone needs to leave a proper message.”
Suddenly, there’s a microscopic movement against my side, and I peer down at King. A fresh stream of dark blood leaks from the corner of his mouth as his eyelids flutter, his lips barely moving as he whispers a single word, “Gun.”
My eyes bounce frantically between King’s failing frame and Damon’s approaching silhouette, trying to figure out exactly how many seconds I have left. The blinding headache pounding behind my skull makes it almost impossible to concentrate.
“Take gun,” King croaks, his voice fading fast. “Not... make it.” He lets out a wet, rattling cough, more crimson coating his mouth. “Dying. Protect... you.”
My survival instincts snap into place. I slide my hand blindly under his kutte, feeling along his waist until my fingers firmly grasp the cold, textured metal of his firearm.
I slide it smoothly from the holster, flicking off the manual safety with my thumb, and swing the barrel around toward Damon.
Crap.
There’s two of him now.
I blink violently, trying to clear the concussive static from my sight, but it’s absolutely no use.
Still two Damon's standing on the highway.
Fuck.
Literally every girl's worst nightmare.
“Put the gun down, Marigold.” The two Damon's nod seamlessly toward the multiple Storms across the road. “Otherwise, my associates here will fill his body entirely full of holes. I think that would be quite enough of a message for your precious Tomcat, no?”
Through my blurred vision, I think I see Storm fiercely shaking his head no, silently warning me not to lower the weapon.
But then the warm, sticky reality of King’s blood soaks completely through the denim of my jeans, reminding me with a brutal punch that I already have one club death on my hands today. I won't be the reason for another.
So, I do the absolute stupidest thing ever and slowly lower the heavy gun to the pavement.
“Slide it over here,” Damon orders, his tone dripping with smug satisfaction.
“Fuck you,” I growl, the venom burning in my throat.
A sharp shot instantly rings out, Storm letting out a muffled grunt as he takes another bullet directly to his leg.
“I hate you,” I tell Damon, my voice dead and cold as I violently shove the firearm across the rough pavement toward his boots.
He stops the sliding metal with the sole of his shoe, bending over with a smooth grace to pick it up. He carelessly shoves it into the waistband of his trousers before strolling over to where I’m stranded on the ground.
Casually.
As if he isn’t the most vile, disgusting creature to ever walk the face of this planet.
The second he stands beside me, he reaches out his hand, running it over my hair in a sickeningly paternal gesture. “Good girl.”
Something about him uttering those specific words to me turns my entire system completely feral.
The switch flips. I move with a lightning speed I didn't know I still possessed, my jaws snapping shut as my teeth lock violently into the flesh of his forearm.
They dig deep, cutting through the expensive fabric and tearing into the muscle tissue until his hot blood fills my mouth.
Then, I yank back with every single ounce of energy left in my broken body, ruthlessly ripping a chunk out of his skin.
Damon screams like a little bitch.
I spit the copper-tasting flesh onto the asphalt, a wild, maniacal laugh exploding from my chest. “There is only one man who ever gets to say that to me, you bastard, and it will never be you.”
In the far distance, the unmistakable, thunderous roar of pipes begins to echo down the highway, and my laughter turns completely wild.
“Oh, you are going to be in so much trouble,” I taunt, wiping the blood from my chin as the bikes gets closer. “He’s gonna make you cry so hard, Damon. You’ll beg for your mother—”
His heavy fist cracks violently against my cheek.
My skin instantly splits open under the force of the blow, but the fiery sting only spurns me on, feeding the chaotic rush of adrenaline.
I spit a mouthful of fresh blood right at his feet, meeting his furious gaze with a look of pure, unyielding ice.
“Ε?σαι ?να αδ?ναμο ανθρωπ?κι,” I say, a lopsided, bloody smile pulling at my lips.
The ancient words hit him a hell of a lot harder than his punch just hit me. In English, it’s a standard jab. In Greek, it’s a total execution sentence. I’m telling him he’s a hollow, pathetic excuse for a human being, a weak little man, and we both know he will never be half the man Tomcat is.
Damon's face contorts into a mask of pure, ugly rage. I try to roll away, but the concussive fog makes me too slow. I don’t get a single chance to move out of the way of his heavy boot before it impacts ruthlessly with the side of my head.
Well. That was fun while it lasted.
The world tilts. The pavement comes up slow, or maybe I go down slow, and the sound of the pipes is still there somewhere at the edge of everything, getting louder…