Page 1 of To Curse A Knight

What in the ever-lovingfuckwas going on with my night right now?

What was supposed to have been an honorable fight to the death—by all accounts, Rodriguez’s death—on the wrong side of town, had become a brutal battle between me and the insufferable woman who couldn’t help inserting herself into every facet of my business.

Instead, the blood spatter of three different signatures painted a gruesome picture across the brilliant blue tarp on Rodriguez’s floor, and the living portrait of us wasn’t much better.

Aaron looked half-dead—without Hillary’s cock-sure intervention, he would have been. His aristocratic face had smeared layers of dried blood and fresh cuts, his eyes so swollen I barely saw the dark irises beneath.

Hillary’s eyebrow had split open when she was just a microsecond too slow to block my punch. The pouty lips I loved to bite were sliced and puffy, and her arms were littered with welts that would become dark bruises by the morning.

The rising ache in my joints and oozing fluid on my face and knuckles told me I hadn’t fared much better. I was still standing, and so were the two people beside me. Admittedly, the fact we were all still alive was the highlight of this shit show of an evening.

My Killer had no idea when to quit; protecting her from her enemies in the shadows alone was a full-time job—but protecting her from herself would be the fucking death of me.

Rodriguez and I flanked her sides when she cocked the little pistol I’d gifted her and held it to the annoying Irishman’s sweaty head. In the many years of fucking her or fighting her—sometimes both at the same time—I had never seen such an unfiltered view of her power.

It was infuriatingly intoxicating.

“You shouldn’t have followed me, Lucky.” Fiery blue eyes burned a hole through his thick skull as she held the gun tight in her fist at close range. A tingle of pride crept up the back of my spine, but I swiftly tamped it down.

Not the time, not the place.

“Yeah, gatherin’ that,” the incessant pain-in-the-ass shot back, though his normally confident retort was considerably toned down. His gaze flicked between the three killers towering over him. “All hopes of an orgy party are out of the window, then?”

My left eye twitched in a barely stifled eye roll. The bastard really didn’t know when to shut up. I’d stared down deathhundreds, if not thousands, of times in my almost forty years, and even I wouldn’t have the balls to joke while my little Killer held a gun to my head.

I’d made the mistake of ignoring this man, even though now, in hindsight, he was a glaring red flag.

I was slipping, and that needed to change now. If I hadn’t been so tied up with Antonio’s vendetta or trying to cover Hillary’s ass, I would have paid more attention to Lauchlan’s convenient appearances at my gym haunt and seen through his invitation to Jediah’s sham of a party.

That run-in had been enough to surprise me, but apparently, I was off my game enough I hadn’t put two and two together. The little fucker was up to something, had some powerful people in his pocket, and by the fury embedded in Hillary’s face, he was playing her, playing me, or both.

The abrupt click of the safety releasing finally caused a flicker of fear to flit through our hostage’s pretty eyes.

Good.

I tucked my gun back into its holster. Hillary could take the lead on this one.

Shifting my weight onto my heels, I added an inch to my height and folded my arms across my chest. The power stance had made bigger men than Lauchlan piss their pants in fear, but he barely spared me a glance, his gaze trained on the whites of my Killer’s eyes.

“So, who am I fighting to prove my worth as a man?” A bratty smirk played across his lips; I wanted to spank him until it fell right off of his face. Abruptly, his expression turned into a neutral stare. “What’s it going to take for me to walk away from this, love?”

The man’s voice didn’t waver—his tone even and cool. Someone practiced in hostage negotiation, or at least someone who had deescalation training. I watched him fold in on himself but maintain his composure, subtly assuming a submissive pose without moving a solid muscle.

Who the fuck is this guy?

Aaron shifted beside me, and I almost startled; I’d almost forgotten he was there.

Almost. I’d underestimated his strength and sheer determination, and he’d impressed me with his fortitude. Antonio would be on the warpath if I allowed him to leave here alive tonight, but we’d have to figure it out. With Hillary’s determination to step into the ring and Lauchlan’s interruption, I wasn’t in the mood to carry out my father’s wishes, no matter the cost to my own life.

Antonio needed me, so I wouldn’t die at his hand. I wasn’t able to make the same promise to anyone else.

Hillary’s body coiled like a snake around the handle of the small gun, but I knew she’d keep her wits about her. For all her faults, she was calculating, not impulsive, but I wouldn’t bet a nickel on what was about to come out of her mouth. I didn’t have a fucking clue.

“Sweet Lauchlan,” she cooed. Her sickly-sweet tone tasted disgusting on even my tongue. “Explain to me”—she paused just long enough to nod her head side to side—“to us,” she amended, “what you want with Alvarez? Your answer literally decides where you end up tonight.”

She rolled her neck and shrugged her shoulders as if she was stretching after a workout, but her grip didn’t relax for a nano-second.

That’s my girl.

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