Page 80 of Seasons of War
“I didn’t.” He shook his head. “Just felt paranoid because the dresser looked different. I thought, what if someone's hiding in here? And you were.”
Miya didn't believe this in-over-his-head act. “Getting shot tends to make a person paranoid. That’s what happened to you, right? They almost got you pretty bad.” She wagged a finger at him. “Be more careful.”
“It barely grazed me. If you’re buying time until I bleed to death, it won’t happen. I don't think so, at least.” He pulled his hand back from the long tear in his shirt.
“What’ll Krowe do if he finds out about your escapade today?” she asked, sounding so calm that it tricked her into feeling a little better.
His skin looked pale already. Miya might be able to outlast him, even though he didn’t think it was all that bad.
“Not looking so good.” She tapped her wrist as if wearing a watch. “How confident are you that you won't pass out?”
“It’d be better for us both if Krowe didn’t hear about this.”
“Are you going to kill me?” She stood up now, needing to see his reaction.
“What?” His brows twisted. “Do you want to kill me?”
“You’re the one with the gun, dumbass.”
Lance looked at it like he had forgotten he held it. “All right. Let's slow down. No one needs to kill anyone. That's crazy. I’ve got a peace offering.” He lifted the weapon by the handle, spreading most of his fingers far from the trigger. “It's not even loaded.” That sloppy, boyish smile eased the pain in his eyes.
What the… What the hell?
Didn't matter.
Miya dropped to a crouch and slammed the gun out of his hand with her elbow. It clattered to the floor. No discharge. He shot a hand up, opening his mouth to speak, but she threw her weight into his gut and squeezed his injury.
Hurt him and run. Her specialty.
Lance shoved her back and knocked her onto the bed. “Sorry!” Doubling over, he grabbed his wound. “Let's talk.”
She’d already set her sights on the gun. Loaded or not, a good hit to his wound would hurt him enough to give her a head start. She dove for the weapon, scooped it up, and swung. But Lance didn’t dodge or counterattack.
The dumbass fell forward like a tree sawed off at the base, absorbed her hit somewhere on his body, and flattened her back on the bed with his horrible weight. His large body engulfed her own and squeezed the air from her lungs.
Flailing beneath him, she clawed at the bed, trying to drag herself out. Lance didn’t budge. He pried the gun from her and holstered it. Miya kept hitting, desperate and suffocating under him.
“Stop.” Groaning, Lance captured her wrists and pinned her arms against the bed beside her head. A halting breath crashed against her temple. “That hurts, Miya.”
She tried to head-butt him, but he jerked back. Too easily, he forced her arms above her head, clasping both wrists with one hand. He used the other to cup her forehead and hold her down.
Trapped.
Trapped, trapped, trapped.
She couldn’t escape.
She hated being trapped.
“I'll rip your flesh from your bones,” she cried. “Let me go, or you're dead.”
“Wow.” Lance gasped, pain straining his words. Hot and sticky blood dampened her midriff where his wound pressed against her.
Miya jerked against his hold on her with all her strength, but his awful weight and grip felt like chains. Or worse, like someone tossed her in with molten iron and now she was locked inside an impenetrable mold forever.
Hopeless.
Miya strained all of her muscles to break free. “You giant, stupid rock. I'm loading that gun and shooting you square in the chest. I won't miss either.”
