When she parts her lips, Story breathes, “Two…” She slips her finger onto the trigger. “Three…” And then she opens her eyes, voice smooth and sure. “Seven.”
My eyes jolt up.
237.
Mayhem.
Rath springs forward, but I barely notice it beyond the blur of the gun swinging to Posey. The shot is close—too close—and I cringe at the ear-splitting crack of it going off just as much as the shriek from Posey that follows. I don’t give myself time to process the aftermath of it, because I’m too busy struggling to my feet. Ms. Crane is already lunging for the knife in Posey’s pants, so even though Rath is gunning for Martin, he doesn’t get there first. Martin scrambles for Delores, one hand clutching his side, but Tristian swipes out a leg, sending him crashing to the floor. Ms. Crane jumps on his back while Tristian hurdles toward the gun. It’s how I realize he’s broken from his zip ties, too, his hands grabbing the gun from Story’s grip in a quick, skilled motion.
Ms. Crane won the race for the knife and is shoving it into Martin’s throat, snarling, “I guess I can keep stabbing men to death.”
I’m sucking on the hind tit here, but I stumble toward Story, shoving her back to place myself between her and the mayhem.
Perfect word for it.
Rath is yelling and Story is gasping, Tristian barking at Martin to, “Get down, motherfucker!” and Posey’s on the floor making these wet, agonized noises, clutching at her thigh as she screams through clenched teeth.
But even though Delores Crane is proficient with a blade, she’s small and old and no match for a tweaker who’s fighting for his life. He snatches her hair and flips, slamming her hard onto the floor. It’s a blur of a scuffle, too fast for me to get to, but the second Martin gets the knife, all three of us are kicking into gear. It’s the flash of fear in her eyes more than anything that makes me fly toward her.
I don’t get there.
Not before a second shot rings out.
Tristian pulls the trigger mid-march, catching Martin square in the middle of his back. Even when it hits, bowling Martin over, Tristian bears down on them with a fury in his eyes that no one would want to be on the other side of. I stop short, surprised he’s not just emptying the entire fucking clip into Martin’s ass. Instead, he grabs him by the collar of his black sweater, wrenching him away from Ms. Crane.
He hauls him up, snarling into his face, “That’s the last fucking time you touch her!” But Martin is barely conscious now, head flopping back with a sickening gurgle, so he throws him aside like the discarded meat he is, huffing.
Ms. Crane stares up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “My big dumb goddamn hero,” she gasps, accepting his hand when he gingerly lifts her to her feet.
“I’m sorry.” Story’s voice draws our attention to where she’s standing, staring down at her mother with a lost expression. She wrings her fists, eyes wide with distress. “I’m sorry, mom. I had to.”
Posey tries to sit up, but she slips in the blood pooling beneath her. “You stupid girl!” she cries, writhing around, eyes clenched shut. “You stupid, stupid—I’m your mother! What are they?! They’re nothing!”
Story’s eyes swim with tears, but they don’t fall.
Not when she raises her gaze to us.
There we stand, three Lords and their cranky housekeeper—bloody, beaten, and exhausted, but too full of adrenaline to think of dropping our guard. I know we don’t look like much. Certainly not Kings.
But when Story speaks, her voice is even and sure.
“They’re mine,” she answers.
33
Story
I don’t want to wake up.
Not completely.
It’s warm here in Dimitri’s bed. Everything, from the smell in the air, to the low hum of music coming from the speakers, to the plush give of the mattress, is comfortably familiar. There’s an arm around my middle, and one beneath my neck, and I can feel their breaths—safe, close, whole—as if they were my own. I don’t want to open my eyes and see the damage that’s been wrought. Facing my mother last night was bad enough, watching the ambulance cart her away, cuffed to the gurney. I think Killian wanted to kill her, and he has every right. She took his father, and if she’s to be believed, his mother, too.
“It’s up to you,” he said last night, right before we called the police. Gun in hand, he kissed my mouth and stroked my jaw, and I knew he was asking for permission.
But I just couldn’t bring myself to give it.