Page 144 of Brutal
Actual laughter.
“You’re late,” he says.
Something cold moves through me. “Late for what?”
He shakes his head against the metal. “You don’t even know what you broke.”
That hits me low in the gut. Not because I understand it. But because I don’t.
I glance once toward Delaney.
She’s standing a few yards back, her chest rising and falling too fast, hair whipped loose by the wind, her gaze locked on the man under my hand. She should look scared.
She doesn’t.
She looks furious. Beautiful and furious.
Mine.
The thought comes hard and immediate.
I hate it.
I don’t hate it enough.
“Who sent you?” she asks, voice sharp.
The man laughs again and then coughs. “Should’ve stayed away, sweetheart.”
I drive my forearm harder into his spine. “What the fuck does that mean?”
He groans, but there’s something ugly and satisfied in it. “She doesn’t even know, does she?”
Rage curls at the back of my neck. “You don’t get to say another word until you answer me.”
He turns his head as much as my hold allows, just enough to show me the corner of his mouth. He’s smiling. Fucking smiling.
“You want names?” he says. “Ask the lawyer.”
“Which lawyer?” I demand.
He just laughs again.
I drag him backward by the arm and spin him hard enough to face me. His hood falls back. Younger than I thought. Thirty, maybe. A scar along his jaw.
I know the type. He’s not a mastermind. He’s a messenger.
He looks past me and then drives his knee up into my thigh, rips his wrist half free, and swings something silver from his pocket.
A knife. Fuck.
I catch his wrist before he gets the blade up all the way, slam it into the wall once, twice, until his fingers loosen. The knife clatters to the ground.
He goes for my eyes with his free hand.
I block, punch him once in the gut, once in the face, and he drops hard onto one knee.
“Samson!” Delaney again.
