Page 85 of Hostile Love
Hunter.
Neither of us speaks, but we do nod. However, in the weird moment of recognition, something feels off.
A shiver runs down my spine and my gut swoops. I’ve studied Hunter on a professional level and dissected his combat techniques in the field.
Carina backs herself against the wall as Hunter slowly descends, approaching her. Something’s different about him today.
His willowy height––slimmer than usual build––sage colored eyes––no stab vest like he expects to get out of here quickly, and the fact he’s holding a semi-automatic in his left hand.
Motherfucker.
This guy might be wearing Hunter’s mask, but it isn't him.
I’m certain Hunter's eyes are navy blue, and I know for a fact he’s right-handed. Those are details I never miss.
If it’s not him, then who the hell is it? And how did he get the scorpion balaclava?
Adrenaline charges through me at the same time the imposter lashes out, grabs a clump of Carina’s hair, and shoves his gun into the soft flesh of her neck.
Hissing, she fights back and fists him in the nuts. He grunts and throws his forehead into the side of her face.
Her heels wobble, her footing slips, and her knees bend, thrown off balance by the force of it.
I spring forward, bounding up the stairs to catch her, both of us tumbling awkwardly together.
My wrist takes the full weight of our bodies combined when I put out my hand to break the fall.
Searing pain shoots up my arm and the back of my head cracks against the wall.
I can’t feel my fingers, never mind wiggle them, and when I try to straighten my elbow, I almost vomit from the agony it causes.
I’ve broken bones before, gritted my teeth and carried on butchering the target, except this time, I’ve busted up the arm I shoot with.
“Carina!” I bite out, doing my best to shield her as I try to free her from under me. “Run!”
But she doesn’t move. The fall must have knocked her unconscious.
Fuck!
I stay on top of her as the guy comes at us. He takes pleasure in kicking my gun over the edge of the stairs. The clatter of it hitting the bottom floor makes him chuckle as he points his at my chest.
My reflexes kick in and my mind turns jet black. The way it always does when I switch to killing mode.
I zone everything out and welcome the darkness into my soul.
There's no softness to my sharp edges. No light in the corners of mind. Only bloodlust and punishment.
My veins run cold, and my instincts take charge.
This is who I am.
The pain in my arm numbs and my moral compass spins out of control. This fucker won’t get the better of me. And he won’t get to Carina either.
All I see are narrowed eyes and a scorpion as I draw in a quick breath and boot his thigh, immediately following it up with another.
Two brutal kicks aren’t where it ends. I might not have a gun, but slaughtering a man in unimaginable ways is a challenge I’d often accept.
Blades and bullets aren’t my only weapons.
