Page 7 of Tate
Deadly.
He came at Tate, his nose bleeding, his eyes red. Even Tate’s fist to his face didn’t faze him. He pushed Tate back, hard.
Tate slipped on the waterfall of glass and went down.
Igor landed on his chest, his knees on Tate’s arms. Igor’s big, bloody hands found Tate’s throat, both thumbs pressing into the well of his neck. Tate was writhing, slamming his knees against the big man’s back, but he couldn’t dislodge him.
“Get off him!” Glo found a vase and threw it at Igor, but it bounced off him, like it might be a Nerf ball.
Tate was choking, fighting for his life.
Glo leaped on the man, her arms around his neck. “Help!” She hit him in the ears, wrapped her arms under his jaw, tried to pull him away.
It worked.
At least long enough for Igor to slam his fist straight back, right into her face.
The world flashed gray, then black, the pain exploding through her. She fell back, off the beast.
Maybe Tate had gotten a slip of air, because she heard his voice, one last time— “Glo?—”
Then Igor wrapped his deadly hands again around Tate’s throat and squeezed.
She was screaming now, her hands over her head, frantic. Her face throbbed and the room spun.Get up. Save Tate.
He was kicking the floor, his movements jerky.
Fading.
No—please.Help!She rolled over to her hands and knees, about to leap again on Igor when she spotted the man. Tall, wide shoulders, and built for hard work, running cattle, and once upon a time, riding bulls.
Knox.
He roared and leaped at Igor, tackling him off Tate. Landed square on the Russian.
Big brother. Furious, protective, and fresh in the fight, Knox sent his fist into Igor’s face once, twice, and Glo turned away from the violence, crawling over to Tate.
He wheezed, rolled over, trying to catch his breath.
Not dead—oh, thank You, God.
Then footsteps, voices, and hotel security flooded the room. White-shirted Bellagio rescuers leaped on Knox, pulling him off his victim.
“It’s not him!” Glo shouted, but Kelsey was already informing them who was the good guy. And who was the assailant.
Glo gripped Tate’s shirt, pulling him over to herself. She shook as she wrapped her arms around his chest, clamping tight.
He leaned his forehead on her shoulder, still gasping for breath.
“Are you okay?” she managed, tears washboarding her voice.
Tate’s shoulders shook, his breathing raspy, but he raised his head.
Blood smeared his battered face. He found her eyes. “Areyouokay?
She could barely look at him. The rising purple on his cheek, the split lip, his nose, clearly broken, and the open cut over his eye, as if he’d been hit by one of those lamps.
And she could bet he had internal bleeding, if not a slew of wicked bruises on his body, given the size of Igor’s fists. Never mind the damage to his windpipe, or… “Is your shoulder dislocated?” His arm hung loose and grotesque.
