Page 169 of Savage Hearts

Everything about the fucker was sloppy.

I tackled him to the ground, landing on top of the fucker. Before he could do anything, I reached around him until I touched the hard metal in the waistband of his jeans. I pulled out the gun and threw it at Maverick’s feet, who watched the entirething with indifference. I knew better. I knew he was enjoying the show.

The fucker took advantage of my distraction and punched me in the face.

I grunted from the pain that exploded on my lip, but I didn’t buck off him like he wanted. A tinge of blood coated my tongue, and I wrapped my hands around the fucker’s neck, pressing down and keeping him immobile.

I shot a smile at Maverick. My own blood dripped down my chin just as Killian came by.

He wasn’t injured, so I was sure he had no problem getting the other man.

“What an attention whore he is,” Killian murmured, watching me with mild amusement.

I pressed down harder on the fucker’s neck, though not too hard. Wouldn’t want to kill him until I had my fun.

And the way I was feeling, I needed all the fun I could get.

His hands clawed at me, his face turning red.

My blood dotted the man’s cheek.

His eyes took on a sheen of terror.

He knew he wasn’t going to make it out alive.

His arms weakened until they fell to his sides.

Finally, he passed out from the pressure of my hands. I let go and moved off him, sitting there for a beat.

“The other one?” I asked.

“Dead,” Killian answered. “Shot himself before I could get to him.”

His tone showed his anger.

“It’s all right. We still got this fucker to contend with,” I said. “And I’m feeling generous. I’ll even let you play with him for a bit.”

Killian smiled and shook his head. Maverick helped me up before we dragged the man away, anticipation strumming through my veins.

This was what I excelled at.

And I was going to use it to forget all that shit with Mila, even if it was only temporary.

23

MILA

I had plannedon staying in my room the entire day.

That had lasted until about three o’clock in the afternoon when my stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything.

I hadn’t touched the breakfast Rachel brought me this morning, trying to punish the brothers in some twisted way, but I was only punishing myself.

I needed to eat.

I needed my strength to fight with them, especially to keep my wits about me, because every interaction with them left me feeling weak and defenseless.

And although it was true I didn’t stand a chance against either of them in a physical fight, the weakness I felt was a mental one.

---