“Shut up,” he snaps, slamming the toe of his fancy boot into Rath’s jaw.
Rath’s head jerks back at the force of it, but when his chin comes back down, heavy against his bare chest, his shoulders give another twist.
Ms. Crane cries out, “For Pete’s sake, Dimitri!” and watches on as he spits out a glob of bright red blood. “Grow a goddamn brain cell and keep your mouth shut for once!” Below the sharpness of the words is a flash of alarm I didn’t think Ms. Crane was even capable of.
Tristian and I share a grim look.
“That’s for the little mark you left me!” the man barks, hitching his shirt up to reveal a small gash. The guy spends a moment inspecting the blood sluggishly bubbling from the wound, which is when I realize Rath fucking stabbed him. I don’t know how deep it is, but I know from the brief flash of his sweaty, pale torso that he’s probably lost a good amount of blood. If he weren’t tweaking so hard, it might even do us some good.
Instead, the man drops in front of me, those dilated pupils drilling into mine. “It must drive you crazy, Killer. Incapacitated and out of the game. Bested by someone half your size. You’re a heavy guy, I’ll give you that. I had to use the highest voltage to make sure it took you down.” He lets out a rabid laugh, nudging my knee with his foot. “Look at you now! You’re like a big, dumb rag doll.” He presses his palm to his wound as he turns, asking Ms. Crane, “Not much different from how he usually is, am I right?”
I take a breath through gritted teeth, forcing the words from my chest like a growl. “At least I’m not hiding my face like a pussy.” Every muscle in my jaw fights to lock me down, but I struggle through it. “At least I fight like a fucking man.”
“Oh, I’m man enough,” he says, jerking his chin at the others. “I took down all the Lords in,” he rucks up his sleeve, darting a glance at a sleek luxury watch, “Jesus, under an hour. Pathetic.”
Even though he looks a little out of it from that kick, Rath’s shoulders are squirming more deliberately now. I get a surge of adrenaline when the guy’s eyes zero in on him.
“Yeah, we’re the pathetic ones.” Tristian gives a low laugh, getting his attention. “While you were slinking around down here, trying to figure out how to avoid an evenly matched fight? The three of us were upstairs giving your woman a gold-star dicking-down.” His blue eyes narrow, making his smirk look chilling. “But hey, if that’s the kind of work it takes for you to get some tail…”
The man lunges forward, taking a thick fistful of Tristian’s blond hair. “You know nothing,” he snarls, “about my woman.”
Tristian’s throat strains at the angle, head bent back to stare up at him. “I know what it’s like to have her want you back. Something you’ll never know.”
The guy pulls out a knife, brandishing it high. From the gleam of the blade in the low light, I can see that it’s already bloodied. This is the knife Rath probably used. Maybe even one of his own. But even though the guy’s back flexes, arm raised, he doesn’t bring it down. He shoves Tristian away. “She’d be mad if I killed you,” he mutters, thrumming with that manic energy as he stomps back. “But she never said anything about this one.”
All three of us snap to attention as he reaches down to snatch Ms. Crane to her feet. But despite the lava running through my veins at the pained sound she makes, my limbs still won’t work.
Rath’s body doesn’t look much better, still out of it from that kick, but he tries—frantically, he tries. “No, no, wait!” He struggles clumsily to his knees, then feet, face slack with horror as the man clutches her to his chest, wrenching her head back. “Wait!”
But the guy already has the point of his blade to Ms. Crane’s neck, snarling, “Watch me cut your sweet little grandwhore from ear to ear.”
All three of us get tangled in the panic, poised halfway between rushing him and knowing that, if we do, she’s sure to die. It’s only when Delores meets my gaze that I freeze, understanding the quiet in her eyes. This was never meant to be her life—cleaning our dishes by day, hiding out in our basement by night. It’s not her life, and it’s sure as fuck not her death. She’s hated it, but she’s done it, because just as much as I understand her, she understands me. This last year she’s spent with us was borrowed time. After a childhood spent under her guiding hand, it was the only gift I had the power to give her, and there for a while, she let me.