Page 73 of Inked Daddies

And when Crow attacked me in the dark, I froze. There was no safety in sight, so I didn’t know what to do. I panicked and froze up until Sam, Trick, and Hugo rescued me.

No more hiding. No more freezing. No more letting other people protect me.

With all the love in my heart for the men out there risking their lives for me, my voice rings out loud and clear. “I want to talk to Crow!”

30

TRICK

I lovea good scrap as much as the next guy—maybe more. Aw, hell, a lot more. There’s something about the rush of adrenaline, the crack of knuckles against bone, the way time seems to slow down when you’re locked in a fight.

It’s not the most moral thing in the world, but it’s part of who I am—the one out of the three of us who never backs away from a brawl. Usually, that instinct serves me well.

Tonight, though, it’s turning my stomach sour. Because this isn’t some bar scuffle or a ring match. This isn’t for the giggles. This is about my girlfriend’s-father-slash-best-friend held hostage, a yard full of armed thugs, and the home Marie grew up in twisted into a war zone. This is about the town that took me in as one of their own.

My pulse drums in my ears as I land a punch on some asshole’s jaw, and for half a second, I’m satisfied by the crunch. But in the back of my mind, an icy dread seeps in. We’re fighting for more than just bragging rights tonight.

I leap back, scanning for the next threat. The yard is a mess of bodies and blood, half-lit by the porch light Marie’s dad used to keep on for her when she came home late. Now bullet casings glint in the grass, muzzle flashes blink through the dark, and the porch steps are half splintered.

Hugo is on my right, moving with that lethal economy I’ve seen him use overseas and back again—no wasted motion, every strike perfectly timed. A grunt from behind me signals another thug launching forward. I duck, letting him flail over my shoulder, then drive a fist into his ribs. He collapses with a wheeze.

A savage thrill courses through me. I’m wired for violence and grinning like an idiot, even in the worst circumstances. I can’t help it. It’s how I cope.

Right now, there’s no Sam or Hugo to watch my back specifically, no plan telling me exactly where to move. Sam’s inside the house searching for Preacher, trying to rescue him from the men who’ve turned his own living room into a hostage cage. Hugo’s busy subduing any threat that flanks us from the side. Which leaves me in the thick of it with no shortage of punks to trade blows with.

I land another strike on a different thug, splitting his lip. Blood spatters across my knuckles, warm and sticky. The guy staggers back, eyes wild with confusion. “That all you got?”

He roars something incomprehensible, brandishing a knife this time. But before he can get close, a shot blasts through the air, cracking so loud my ears ring. My immediate reaction is to spin toward the gunfire—huge mistake.

I barely register a sharp impact slamming into my thigh, like someone swung a sword full force at my leg. I crumple with a gasp, entire body folding in on itself as I hit the ground. Dirt grinds into my shoulder and cheek, and for a moment, I don’t even realize what the fuck just happened. Pretty sure none of these assholes had a sword. I just feel that dizzy, breathless whack of pain.

A second passes in surreal silence. Then the agony roars. It radiates outward from my thigh in white-hot waves, stealing the air from my lungs. I blink, trying to get my bearings. An acrid smell of gunpowder and dirt invades my nostrils. From this sideways view, it’s hard to see past the broken porch furniture and lumps I can’t think about right now—bodies or knocked-out men. My vision swims as I tug at my leg, desperately trying to see the damage.

Blood. So much blood, dark and glistening, soaking my jeans and oozing around the edges of my thigh. My heart stutters. My breath catches in my throat. But the first coherent thought that pierces the fog is so absurd it makes me bark a humorless laugh:

My tattoo.

I blink down at the wound, or what I can see of it beneath the blood and ripped jeans. Scales from my snake tat spread across my skin, black ink Hugo painstakingly designed for me. That proud shape is now spattered with red, the lines smeared. A bullet hole, ragged and ugly, has torn right through the edge of the design. The shock of it stings more than I’d like to admit.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, voice half-choked. I press my palm to the wound, feeling the sticky warmth of my own blood. “Couldn’t aim an inch lower, you asshole? You had to ruin the ink?”

The pain spikes, making me gasp. My head lolls back against the grass, and a wave of nausea hits. For a moment, I just lie there, trying not to pass out. My pulse thrums in my ears, and I can taste iron on my tongue, whether it’s from biting my lip or just the metallic tang of rage, I’m not sure. Part of me wants to crack a joke about being the only person more worried about messing up a tattoo than bleeding out, but I can’t find enough breath, and I don’t have an audience.

Marie is in the truck, and Hugo is swinging fists in every direction. Sam’s inside, maybe cornered. Preacher is definitely cornered, battered by these scum. I can’t be lying down on the job.

“Move, bitch,” I growl under my breath, clenching my teeth. The agony scorches my nerves, but I force myself to roll to one side, letting out a moan. My fingers tingle with numbness, and another wave of nausea hits me.

This ain’t like the last time I got shot. This is worse.

Guns echo again from near the porch. I hazard a glance upward. Hugo is locked in close combat with three men, or it might as well be three. They keep coming at him from different angles, fists, knives, trying to get him from the side, half in and half out of the light, so I can’t quite tell. But he’s holding them off with that cool precision—twist a wrist, slam an elbow, parry a wild swing with a sharp knee to the face. He’s brilliant, unstoppable.

But even he can’t watch every direction forever. And these punks are relentless. And there’s so fucking many of them.

I grit my teeth, pressing a hand firmly on my thigh to staunch the bleeding. Adrenaline surges again, fueling me. I can’t black out. I have to help them.

My vision wobbles as I push up onto my free knee, breath hitching. “Dammit,” I hiss. Every movement sends shards of pain rattling up my spine. Must have hit the nerve pretty good. Still, I manage to prop myself upright, leaning on my hands for support.

How many times have I been battered or bruised in old missions with Sam and Hugo? A bullet is a bigger deal, sure, but I can’t just lie down. Not when she might be in danger.

---