Page 18 of Hercules

All right, maybe a dash of go-nowhere flirtations.

A dash.

Absolutely. Nowhere.

Because he wasn’t even chatting up the right woman.

But who on earth had she been batting her fake lovey-dovey grays at?

The guy who’d watched eight wicked goons drop in on them—from the ceiling, not like neighbors bearing pizzas so they could borrow the streaming subscription for the big game—as if that kind of stuff happened to him every night around eight. But then their leader had been G.I. freaking Jane, demanding that he hand Lois over, and he’d become the guy snarling back at the bitch like she was a nutty ex demanding custody of the dog. Because no way was he a cat person…

Hold up.

Was the Kevlar cutie actually his ex?

Logic already called the longshot on that one, and Lo tried to ignore her relief about it despite the larger recognition taking form.

As thoroughly as the guy wasn’t a love-my-kitty-boo-boot type , he probably was someone who came with an ex in his-baggage. She had to accept it. A male as beautiful as him likely had numbers in themed folders on his phone. It just didn’t make sense that someone like the patio crazy would be in one of them.

Someone like what? Because you know him that well? Your “Hercules?” Is that it?

She shook her head at the rumination, wet dog style, because all that nonsense deserved the stink. She’d become a character she’d vowed never to write, subjected to an insane series of events that should’ve killed her but emerging more concerned about whether her handsome protector could see her naughties and smell her petrified perspiration.

“Hey!”

Perspiration was the kinder term now, as she jolted from the corner where she’d been hurled in response to a livid bellow from a distinctly male source. But it wasn’t her Hercules. Okay, not her Hercules—she and the guy had exchanged less than a hundred words between that first moment at the event table and—shit—whatever this was.

“Hey!” the instigator yelled again. “Can you hear me?”

It was a demand this time, inciting a knee-jerk flood of fury through Lo, though she knew a good dose of desperation mixed into domination when she heard it. Rashness that went fully justified as soon as she swept her gaze toward the corresponding corner to hers, located at the open end of a small but modern kitchen area.

“Hey,” the big male three-peated, despite being reduced to a raspy gurgle. Mucus and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth and a gash in his forehead, as well as a deeper cut in the sleeve of his trendy club button-up. His head lolled over, sending the red stuff into the mint-green tips of his long, dirty-blond hair. “Please. Can you help me? We…have to…help him.”

“Holy f…” She meant to finish off the profanity but scrambling to all fours was a more agonizing ordeal than expected. “Wh-What happened?”

Bleeding Club Guy didn’t begrudge her the question. Could’ve had something to do with her speed date mate taking up his lap with drooping eyelids and a nastily bruised jawline. But none of that fueled her exclamation more than the spreading blood splotch just below his beltline, obviously contributing to the widening crimson pool beneath the two of them.

“Who are you?” she demanded then. “And where are we? What the living hell is—Oh shit.”

Sometimes her self-interruptions were more valid than others. This was one of those times on steroids. As soon as she gasped her last word out, raw shock had her sucking the air back in.

The reason Hercules was bleeding… It was from a dart shot into the inner crease of his thigh, with a barrel at least ten inches long.

A big tube she recognized.

Several of the assholes on the patio had those outfitted on their firearms. Except back then, they were filled with a weird green goo. Only a few dots of that stuff were visible in the dart she stared at now.

“Think we can play fun facts with Apollo later?” Bleeding Club Guy charged. “Because my brother’s going to die, disgustingly and painfully, if you don’t get your ass over here and help me.”

Fun facts with Apollo wasn’t her idea of a fitting title for all this, but he was right. This wasn’t a moment for arguing minutiae. She hurried all the way to her feet, ordering herself against gawking at the surroundings that’d changed too. A lot.

She had enough time to note the intimate patio was replaced by a sprawling space with modular furniture and impressive lighting, almost making her overlook the rough stone ceiling and distinctly earthy redolence.

Meaningless details. As soon as she skittered across the room and plunked back down, nothing mattered but the terrifyingly still form of the male who’d captivated her across a café table less than a half-hour ago.

“All right. What do you need me to—”

“The refrigerator,” Bleeding Club Guy broke in. “Open it. There’s a locked compartment in the right hand door. The code is M-E-G-oh-one.”