Page 35 of One Shattered Crown
My jaw tightens. I don’t knock.
I lift my leg and nail the door with my boot. The worn wood shudders and bursts wide, wood cracking against the wall. The stink of booze and grease spills out, hot and thick.
Crossing a filthy living room with a ripped sofa and stacks of what looks like kiddie porn on a chair, I barrel into the kitchen to see grease stains, rotting food, and a stack of bottles on the counter. And in the middle of it—Ella. Bedazzled jacket plastered to her from the rain,cowboy hat tipped low, her arm twisted back in the fat hand of a red-faced slob. His gut strains against a stained undershirt, his knuckles white where he grips her.
Her eyes snap to me. Defiance, always, but there’s strain under it, too. She’s fighting.
“Get your hands off her.” My voice comes low, steady.
The man stares, sways, and doesn’t let go. His eyes are bloodshot and his pupils dilated.
I take another step in, rain dripping from my coat, boots hitting the linoleum with a solid crack. The dog outside keeps barking, chain rattling, the sound mixing with the storm.
The man mutters something ugly and tries to drag Ella closer. His voice, dark and evil, ripples across my skin and bruises my fucking elbows. My vision narrows until all I see is her in his grip.
Absurd. Sequins and rhinestones in a filthy kitchen. But there’s nothing funny about the fury boiling in my chest.
“Fuck you,” the asshole mutters and yanks Ella tight against him like she’s his property.
That’s it.
I move before he can blink and grab his beefy wrist. The bone snaps in my grip, breaking with a sharp crack. He screams, high and panicked, and Ella tears free. I shove her behind me, never taking my eyes off him.
He staggers, clutching his useless hand, and swings with the other. Pathetic. I catch his arm, drive my knife up under his ribs, and push until his mouth opens in a wet gasp. His eyes go wide, confused. He didn’t see me go for one of my knives.
No words. No warning.
The blade slides free and his knees buckle. He crashes to the filthy linoleum, bottles rolling across the floor, blood soaking through his stained shirt.
The only sounds are the storm pounding the roof, the dog still barking outside, and Ella’s sharp breath behind me.
I wipe the blade clean on his shirt and straighten. Cold rage still burns steady in my chest, but the job’s done. He won’t touch her—or anyone—again. Blood spreads fast, mixing with the grime already ground into the linoleum.
Behind me, she inhales sharp and quick. Tennis shoes, one blue and one purple, scrape against the tile as she backs away.
“Justice …” Her voice shakes once, then steadies with sheer will. “You didn’t have to kill him.”
I turn just enough to see her, the cowboy hat tipped low, sequins catching the weak light. She looks furious, but her eyes—wide, startled—betray her.
She doesn’t understand. Of course she doesn’t.
The man touched her. He doesn’t get to breathe after that. Neither of us needs to question the why of that. Not right now, anyway. Seeing that scum try to hurt her had awakened something primal in me.
Something I don’t want.
Rain pounds the roof. The dog outside thrashes against the chain, barking hoarse. I slip the blade back into its sheath, the motion automatic, my pulse already steadying.
“He laid hands on you,” I say, my tone flat. “That was enough.” I’ll have someone burn this entire place to the ground once I get her to safety.
Her mouth opens, then shuts. She shakes her head, hat dripping water onto the floor, and takes another step back.Shock rolls off her in waves, but I don’t move toward her. Not yet. She needs space to realize what kind of man I am.
What kind of man she’s facing.
The storm hasn’t let up. She turns and runs out of the back kitchen door. Curious, I follow her. Does she actually think she can escape me?
Again?
Rain sheets sideways, hammering the sagging porch as we step outside. The door bangs against the wall behind me, left open to the stink of booze and blood.
