Page 14 of Wicked Mafia Beast
"Stop fighting." His breath is hot against my ear. "You're only making this worse for yourself."
I grit my teeth through the pain and ground out, "Story of my life."
I stomp down hard on his instep, and his grip loosens just enough for me to wrench free. I spin, putting distance between us, and my eyes find Sloane.
She's holding her own. Barely. The guy she cut with her heel is hanging back, pressing his hand to his bleeding face, but the other one has her pinned against the wall, his forearm across her throat. Her feet kick uselessly against the concrete, her face going red as she struggles to breathe.
Okay, or maybe she isn’t too good.
I don't think. I move.
My laptop bag swings in a wide arc, all that equipment and research notes turned into a weapon, and it connects with the back of the guy's skull with a satisfying thunk. The strap snaps on impact, the worn leather finally giving out, and the bag goes flying into the shadows near the wall where Sloane is slumped.
The guy staggers, his grip on Sloane loosening, and she gasps in a desperate breath.
"Run!" I scream at her. "Find a way back inside!"
But before she can move, the guy I hit spins around and backhands me across the face.
The sound comes first. A crack like a gunshot, ringing through the alley, bouncing off brick walls. Then the pain explodes across my cheekbone, rattling my skull. The world tilts sideways and I'm falling, nothing but air between me and the harsh concrete.
I hit the ground hard. My palms tear open on the rough surface, skin shredding against grit and small fragments of old, broken glass. The pain is sharp and bright. The taste of blood floods my mouth, hot and copper-thick, from where my teeth slammed into my tongue on impact.
For a moment I can't remember how to breathe. Can't remember how to move. Can't remember anything except the ringing in my ears and the wet warmth dripping down my chin.
I try to push myself up, but my arms won't cooperate, trembling and weak.
Through blurred vision, I see Sloane launch herself at the man standing over me. She's screaming something, words I can't make out, her fists pounding against his back. He turns, annoyed, and shoves her away like she weighs nothing.
She hits the wall with a sickening crack.
Time slows down. I watch her crumple in horrible detail, frame by frame, her body folding in on itself as she tries to catch her fall.
The sound of the bone snapping is something I will hear in my nightmares for the rest of my life. Wet and final, like a thick branch breaking underfoot. Her scream follows half a second later, ripping through the alley, raw and animal and so full of pain it makes my stomach lurch toward my throat.
Her arm. Oh god, her arm bent the wrong way when she tried to catch herself. The angle is all wrong, a zigzag where there should be a straight line, and bile surges up my esophagus so fast I have to swallow it back down.
She slides down the brick, cradling her arm against her chest, her face twisted in agony. Blood trickles from somewhere in her hairline, matting her blonde victory rolls into a tangled mess. Her red lipstick is smeared across her chin, and she looks so small suddenly, so broken, this woman who walked into any room like she owned it.
I did this. I brought this to her door.
"Sloane!" I try to crawl toward her, but hands grab me from behind, hauling me up onto my knees. "Sloane, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry?—"
"Enough." Brennan's voice cuts through my panic. He crouches down in front of me, and I notice he's not even breathing hard. Like this is just another Tuesday for him. Like breaking women is routine. "Your friend will live. Probably. Depends on how fast someone finds her."
"You son of a bitch?—"
"Save it." He stands, nodding to one of his men. "Package her up. The plane leaves in two hours."
Plane? What plane? The auction isn't until Saturday. Unless?—
The thought dies as I feel a sharp sting in my neck. A pinch, then a burn, then cold spreading through my veins like ice water being pumped directly into my bloodstream.
Fast. So fast. Too fast to fight.
A metallic taste floods my mouth, chemical and wrong, coating my tongue and the back of my throat. The sounds around me start to distort, stretching and warping like a record played at the wrong speed. Brennan's voice saying something I can't understand. The distant wail of a siren that might be help coming or might be my imagination.
My fingers go numb first. Then my arms. Then my legs, buckling beneath me, and someone catches me before I hit the ground but I can barely feel their hands. Everything is cotton and static and a darkness that creeps in from the edges of my vision like ink spreading through water.
