Page 50 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

“Let’s start with the eyes,” Bull says, bringing the knife toward my face. “Widow was specific about that.”

Now.

As the knife comes within inches of my right eye, I slam my head backward with all my strength. The back of my skull connects with Tall’s masked face, the impact jarring his head sideways with a sickeningcrunchof plastic on teeth.

“Fucking—!” He reels back, blood spraying inside his mask as his split lip smears against the filter canister.

Bull reacts instantly, knife slashing toward my throat, but I’m already moving. I throw my weight sideways, toppling the chair I’m still strapped to. We crash to the floor together, the impact sending fresh waves of agony through my injured shoulder.

But the chair breaks. The wooden arms splinter on impact, and the leather restraint around my right wrist tears free.

One hand loose. All I need.

Bull recovers quickly, rolling to his feet with ease. The knife weaves patterns in the air as he circles, waiting for an opening. Behind me, Tall is still disoriented, blood streaming from his nose beneath the mask.

I lie still, seemingly trapped by the half-broken chair and remaining restraints. Waiting.

Bull approaches, knife extended. “Nice try,” he says, voice tight with anger. “But you’ve just made this worse for yourself.”

The moment he steps within range, I lash out with my free hand, grabbing his wrist and yanking him off-balance. He falls forward, and I thrust upward with all my strength, driving the splintered end of the broken chair arm into the gap between his mask and body armor.

Blood fountains from his throat, hot and metallic on my face. He makes a wet, gurgling sound, eyes wide with shock behind the mask. The knife falls from his nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor beside my head.

I grab it before his body has fully collapsed on top of mine.

“What the fuck?” Tall yelps, finally regaining his senses. He draws his sidearm, a matte black pistol, aiming at my head. “Don’t move!”

I freeze, still pinned beneath Bull’s twitching body. The knife is hidden beneath his bulk, pressed against my palm. I need to time this perfectly.

“Widow’s going to be pissed,” Tall mutters, stepping closer, gun trained on me. “Fucking amateur hour with this one here.”

He kicks Bull’s body, rolling him off me. The movement gives me the split second of distraction I need. I slash upward with the knife, opening Tall’s inner thigh from knee to groin. The femoral artery.

He screams, staggering backward, blood pumping from the wound in rhythmic spurts. The gun fires, the shot going wide, embedding in the concrete wall behind me.

I’m on my feet before he can aim again, ignoring the fire in my damaged knee, the agony of my shoulder. With my left hand still restrained to the remains of the chair, I swing it like a flail, catching him across the temple.

He goes down hard, the gun skittering across the floor. I’m on him in an instant, driving the knife up under his chin, through the bottom of his mask, and into his brain. His body jerks once, twice, then goes still.

Silence descends, broken only by my ragged breathing and the steady drip of blood onto concrete.

Two alphas. Thirty seconds. Not my cleanest work, but I’ll take it.

I retrieve the gun, then use the knife to cut through the remaining restraints. My arm hangs useless at my side, the shoulder swollen to twice its normal size. No time to fix it now.

I strip Bull of his combat gear—his mask, body armor—and put them on over my bloodied clothes. The mask will hide my face and filter out the worst of Hailey’s heat pheromones, allowing me to think clearly. The body armor might make the difference between life and death if I encounter more of Heath’s security.

Fully equipped, I check the gun—Glock 19, nearly full magazine, one in the chamber. I tuck it into the holster on my tactical belt and sheathe the knife on my thigh.

Now for Hailey.

I move to the door, pressing my ear against it. Nothing. The corridor beyond seems quiet. I turn the handle slowly, easing it open just enough to peer through the crack.

Empty.

But not for long. Someone will come looking for the alphas eventually, wondering why they haven’t reported in. I need to move fast.

I slip into the corridor, immediately assessing possible routes. Based on what Heath had said, I know we’re on one of the lower levels. Caldwell would want privacy for what he plans to do to Hailey—somewhere secure and soundproofed.

---