Page 131 of Fight or Flight
Ty throws himself at me and grabs me around the waist, trying to wrestle me to the ground. I easily break his hold and take advantage of his momentum to toss him on top of Kyle, and the hollow thud of skin and bone slamming together makes me grin wider.
Paul hesitates, obviously shocked by how easily I took down his buddies. That gives me all the opening I need, and I slam my fist into his diaphragm.
He stumbles back, his eyes wide and his mouth falling open as his arms windmill in a desperate attempt to stay upright, but he trips over his feet and tumbles to the ground with a satisfying thump.
Both Kyle and Ty are already climbing to their feet, and I turn to face them, pausing so they have enough time to get up. It’s no fun when they don’t fight back. Or at least try to.
Both men lunge at me, and I easily dodge their swings.
I could take them out with a single well-placed hit if I wanted to, but that’s too merciful for these assholes. If they’re going to be stupid enough to go after Shane, then they’re going to get a lesson they’ll never forget about what happens when you fuck with someone who’s mine.
The world around me goes hazy as I dodge their hits and deliver a few of my own, slowly tiring them out and hurting them just enough that they know they’re going to lose but don’t stop out of fear of what I might do to them when they do.
A hard hit to my back snaps my attention away from the trio of douchenozzles I’m dealing with, and I turn toward the dumbass who decided it was a good idea to attack me from behind.
Mason is standing there holding a large stick like it’s a baseball bat and he’s trying to hit the game-winning home run.
“You want some of this?” I ask, my voice dark and raspy.
The spot where he hit me is tender, but there wasn’t anywhere near enough force behind it to even slow me down, let alone give him any sort of advantage.
“Come and get it,” I taunt and make a “come hither” motion with my hand.
Mason swings the stick at me, but either he’s never played baseball a day in his life, or never used a bat as a weapon before, and I easily catch the stick, stopping his swing before it reaches me.
His eyes widen with fear as he tugs on the stick, but I hold on tight. He knows he just lost, and there’s nothing he can do about it. I let him try to get the stick away from me a few more times, then give it a hard yank.
The stick slips right out of his hands, and he lets out a little yelp. My grin gets wider when he tries to scurry away from me like the rat he is, but he trips over his own feet, and I watch as he tumbles to the ground with a pathetic cry and lands hard on his ass.
A slight disturbance in the air behind me pulls my attention away from Mason, and I whip around, the stick still in my hand, as Kyle and the cronies make another attempt at attacking me.
Three hits, one after the other, is enough to drop them like flies, and I turn my focus back to Mason while they writhe and cry on the ground like the pathetic worms they are.
“Ready to see what this can do when you know how to use it?” I ask Mason calmly.
He makes a squeaking sound, like a rusty screen door, and stares up at me in terror.
As tempting as it is to beat him to a bloody pulp with the thing, I hold back. Not because I don’t want to kill him or think he deserves even a shred of mercy. I just don’t want to deal withthe inevitable consequences of taking out another student right now.
Just to put the fear of God into him, I spin the stick around like it’s a staff, basically doing the same thing with it as I do with my butterfly knives, only instead of just using my hand, I flip and spin it around my body in a pattern that’s utterly useless for defense but looks badass as fuck to the untrained eye.
Mason squeals in terror and tries to crab walk away from me, his hands slipping so he flops backward like he’s doing a really bad reverse worm.
“I’ll tell my dad!” he cries.
I stop spinning the stick and grip it tight. “And what’s daddy dearest going to do to me?”
“He’ll… he can…” His eyes dart around like he’s hoping someone will jump out from behind the trees to save him.
“He’ll what?” I taunt.
“He’ll…”
“That’s what I thought.” I lift the stick. A few good hits won’t be too much trouble to deal with.
I’m just about to swing when a soft groan breaks through my rage, and I glance over at Shane.
He’s on his knees now, his hands over his stomach as he drags in ragged breaths, but it’s his chalk-white pallor and the terrified look in his eyes that makes the last of my anger fade, and I toss the stick aside.
