He glares at me with disgust. “What makes you so sure?”
There are a hundred reasons I could give him, but none he’ll understand.
Four, three…
“Love.”
He tucks his gun into his waistband. “Keep telling yourself that, bitch.” Time slows as he lowers to his knees and straddles my hips. “Not that it matters. That son of a bitch’s time is ticking, too.” Gripping my throat, he pins me to the floor with his free hand, while the other brings the needle toward my neck.
Two, one…
Gritting my teeth, I jerk my wrists apart with every last ounce of energy I have. The zip-tie snaps and falls away. Blood rushes toward my hands, sending pins and needles shooting through my fingers, but I don’t have time to care. The sudden movement stuns Declan, and his grip on my neck eases. He draws the needle back for a few seconds, but that’s all I need.
We both come alive at the same moment.
He lunges.
I swing.
He roars.
I hit concrete.
For a moment, I’m not sure what happened, then a warm, wet splash hits my cheeks. I swipe the back of my hand across my face and see Declan’s eyes frozen in shock, the pen lodged deep in the hollow crevice where his shoulder meets his neck. The moment he tips to the side, I don’t wait for him to fall. I go for the gun tucked in his waistband. My fingers are on the grip when he swings his arm, sending my chin flying over my shoulder and the gun skidding across the floor.
There’s a loud bang as the weapon goes off, and everything narrows into a spinning blur.
I scramble to my knees, fighting for focus. Through the haze, I can see Declan jerking the pen out like an idiot, turning a steady drip of blood into a gushing waterfall.
“You … fucking … bitch…” he wheezes. “I’ll … kill…”
But I’m not listening. I’m already crawling an unsteady path toward the gun. I hear him behind me, swearing and grunting, blood loss and shock slowing him down. I reach it first and wrap my fingers around the grooved surface of the grip. But even injured, size and strength close the gap. I barely find the trigger when I’m dragged backward by my ankle.
“I should’ve killed you a long time ago,” he snarls, clamping his hand around my wrist before flipping me over onto my back. His face is a splotchy patchwork of blood and rage as he pins my wrist to the concrete, his other hand squeezing my throat.
As the edges of my vision darken, I’m startled by how mortal he looks.
How breakable.
With one final surge of strength, I drive my knee toward his balls, which does little more than stun him for a moment. While I’m losing the battle, I’m not sure either of us will win the war. Blood flows faster and heavier from hiswound, staining us both as his face turns from pale to ashen gray.
I may not be long for this world, but neither is he.
He pries the gun from my hand with a snarl, the blackness around my vision swallowing more light as he presses the muzzle to my forehead. “Give my regards to your bitch mother.”
I close my eyes and wait for the blast.
Only it never comes.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear rapid footsteps, then the hand on my throat disappears.
It’s like breaking the surface of depthless water. I cough violently as muffled curses slice through the haze, along with shouting and the unmistakable sound of bone hitting bone.
Find your center. Survivors fight. Victims fall.
Pushing myself into a seated position, I focus on the tangle of fists in front of me. I know who it is in an instant. I crawl over to him, my head clearing with every swing of his fist. “Gianni,” I call out, but it’s barely a whisper, my traumatized larynx revolting against the charge.
Every inch closer brings another spray of blood. Gianni isn’t just punching with his fist; he’s hitting Declan with his own gun—hard, fast, and with intent.