Page 121 of The Bodyguard Situation

“Brody.” Asher’s tone is sharp, but I silence him with a slight shake of my head.

Micah hesitates briefly, clearly weighing my offer; desperation and rage fill his eyes. “You think sacrificing yourself makes you a hero?” he sneers bitterly. “You’re nothing but Harper’s little puppet. Her little fucktoy that she will leave for another man. When I close my eyes, I can still imagine my dick in her mouth, choking on me. How do my sloppy seconds taste?”

I swallow back my anger, focusing on Mia’s trembling form, her shallow, panicked breaths. “You’re right,” I say evenly, meeting Micah’s gaze head-on. “You win. Now let her go and fight with me.”

Micah’s expression shifts abruptly, confusion flickering across his face as he considers my offer, the blade wavering slightly. When he hesitates, I see my chance, but I wait for the right moment, unwilling to risk Mia’s life. Micah is too unpredictable. His pupils are blown out too, which tells me I’m dealing with someone who’s on something.

“Let her go,” I repeat, my voice softer but no less firm as I hold Micah’s gaze. “You don’t want her. You want revenge. You want me to suffer. You’ve got me right here.”

His eyes narrow; suspicion fights with his desire to punish me. I sense the moment he chooses me and watch his grip loosen around Mia’s waist.

He shoves her forward, and she stumbles, collapsing toward Nick, who catches her, pulling her quickly behind him and out of immediate danger.

But my relief is short-lived. In the same heartbeat, Micah pivots, his gaze locking on mine, eyes blazing.

“Now,” he growls, stepping forward, fingers tightening on the blade, “it’s your turn to pay.”

But before I can fully react, Micah throws the knife toward my head, and I dodge it. As he steals my attention, he charges me, the force of his body slamming brutally into mine, knocking the gun from my grasp. It skitters across the basement floor, out of immediate reach. Pain jolts through my spine as we crash onto the hard concrete, my shoulder absorbing most of the impact.

Instinct and years of training instantly kick in. My muscles tense, responding with precision as Micah’s fists slam against my ribs. I grit my teeth against the pain, feeling his desperation intensify his strength. He fights without discipline, without strategy; it’s just raw, animalistic fury.

I find an opening, gripping his wrist and forcing him off-balance. Micah growls, his free hand clawing at my throat. His nails dig into my skin, breaths hot against my face.

“You should’ve stayed out of this,” Micah hisses, voice strained as he shifts, knees digging into my chest. “You think you’re a hero, Calloway? You’re fucking nothing.”

I ignore his bullshit, focused on finding a way to maneuver beneath him. My heart pounds in my ears, every breath tight. I twist again, planting my feet against the concrete, using my legs to shove us sideways. Micah loses balance, falling onto his back with a grunt of surprise. I shove my fist into his face, knuckles on flesh.

Asher’s voice cuts through the chaos, urgent as he and Nick try to find a way to help. I can’t make out what either of them is saying because I’m so fucking fueled by rage.

Micah bucks beneath me, his anger giving him unnatural strength. His elbow strikes my jaw, and stars explode in my vision. I shake it off, adrenaline dulling the pain. I pin him harder, pressing my forearm against his windpipe to restrict his airflow. But Micah doesn’t give up. His eyes flash dangerously, fingers scrambling across the concrete. A wave of dread hits me as I realize he’s reaching for the discarded gun.

Panic flares in my veins. I adjust my weight, fighting to keep him pinned, but Micah’s fingers stretch closer, murder gleaming in his eyes. He manages a rough shove, creating just enough space to thrust his arm outward, fingertips brushing the cold metal barrel.

“Brody! He’s got the gun!” Nick shouts, voice full of alarm.

Their guns are pointed at us, but there’s no clear shot for them to take.

Micah’s fingers wrap around the grip, his face transforming into a psychopathic sneer. Without thinking, I grab his wrist, forcing the gun upward and away from both of us. I put my other hand on his throat and squeeze tight. I want to see the life drain from him, but he’s stronger than even I anticipated.

We roll across the floor, bodies tangled in a struggle. Time stretches around us painfully, and my only goal is to disarm Micah, my grip tight around his wrist, keeping the weapon from turning back on us. I’m too hell-bent on us all walking away from this fucking nightmare.

“Let go!” Micah snarls, his voice full of rage.

I have to stop him. I have to end this, or none of us will walk out of this basement alive.

Every muscle strains as I wrestle Micah for control of the gun. Sweat slickens my grip. Micah’s face twists with wild desperation, teeth bared as he fights to turn the gun back toward me.

“Brody,” Asher’s urgent shout pulls my attention. “Hold him!”

I clench my jaw, fighting with all my strength to keep Micah’s arm locked upward, the barrel wavering dangerously above us.

“You’re not walking away from this,” Micah spits, muscles straining.

“Neither are you,” I say through gritted teeth, channeling all my strength into this struggle.

Micah bucks under me, scraping his heels against the concrete for leverage, the sound echoing harshly.

In that split second, my grip slips just enough for Micah to jerk his arm downward, shifting the gun dangerously close to my chest. My heart slams against my ribs. With a final burst of strength, I force his wrist upward again. But it’s too late.

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