Page 11 of Taking Denver

“If he comes here?—”

Black blasts across my face. It feels like I’ve slipped headfirst onto the patio floor and forgotten to throw my hands out to soften the blow. After the darkness, pain follows, a throb that pulses in time with my heart.

I fall backward, hip hitting the floor, blood spitting from my mouth and across cream tiles. Glass bites into my arms and tears through my dress as I scramble to get away from whoever hit me. I try to blink, try to do anything with my face, but nothing complies—my eyes feel too big, my lips have their own heartbeats, and my nose, God a-fucking-bove, my nose must be smashed into my skull; there’s no other explanation for the pain. Blood spills across my lips and tongue, the hot metallic taste making me gag.

Boots crunch over glass.

No. No, not like this, no?—

A gargled scream escapes my throat when the man grips my neck and lifts me. My vision is clearing, and the bald man dressed in black is staring like he hates me, probably because he does.

I know him. He was a guest at my wedding.

He squeezes, and oxygen ceases to exist. It’s maddening how quickly I forget how it feels to breathe, and pressure builds, hot air filling my head. Adam Ledger’s lip trembles as he leans close. His breath smells like whiskey and blueberry, and somewhere in my panicked brain, I note that his tongue is blue. Before his revenge, he’d had some kind of exciting beverage.

What a strange final thought to have.

“Murderer,” he whispers.

A furious growl fills the room, and paws skid across glass-strewn tiles. I try to call out to beg Wesson not to do it, but he must have already clamped his teeth around Adam’s leg because he screams and releases me. I hit the ground, shards biting my leg as I scramble over to the coffee table.

And then Wesson yelps.

The noise tears through me, stalling my movements, and panic collides with me harder than Adam’s fist had. I whirl on my knees as he kicks Wesson into the television stand.

I scream.

Adam can hurt me. He can get his twisted, pointless vengeance. He can take me from this place and cut me up, send pieces of me back to San Francisco. Hell, I probably deserve it.

But he cannot hurt my fucking dog.

I reach for the coffee table drawer, sweat-slicked palm grasping the gun, the one I’d never, ever wanted.

I whirl on my knees, gun aimed—but stop.

Memories lock my finger.

The noise. It would be so loud. My ears would ring. His blood would coat the walls. There was always so much blood.

Tears blur my vision. Blood stains my lips. My finger is on the trigger. Wesson tries to stand but wobbles before lying down again, whining softly.

“Do it, Deluxe.” The name has my gaze snapping back to Adam. “Kill another Ledger.”

My hand doesn’t tremble, but my fuckingfinger. It won’t pull the trigger.

“I didn’t kill him,” I whisper.

“Liar,” Adam says. “Shoot me, Deluxe. Because if you don’t, I’ll come back, and?—”

Someone places a hand on Adam’s shoulder. He turns. Something cracks. Adam is thrown, his back thudding into the wall. Another crack. Another.

Ethan pulls back his arm and hits Adam again, and I stare on, lips parted, eyes wide. Blood spritzes across the white walls and linen curtains, and Wesson crawls over to me on his belly, nudging my bloodied knee with his nose. I cling to him.

I hold my breath as the vet with the easy smile unleashes hell on the man trying to kill me. It’s like watching a dog discover it has teeth—and use them. With gusto.

Something clicks, and Ethan steps back, glass skittering beneath his feet. Adam’s face is a mishmash of purple and red, blood and spittle covering his mouth and chin, his hand shaking as he points the gun at Ethan’s face.

“He didn’t do anything!” I shout, and Adam shifts his rapidly purpling eyes to me. “He doesn’t even know who I am, Adam!”

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