Page 53 of Riot

Hand signal. Hold.

I pressed my back to the siding and edged toward the window. The curtain had a two-inch gap on the right side. Enough to see the living room. A flatscreen TV mounted on the wall played some late-night talk show, the volume turned so low the laugh track sounded like static. A couch. An empty beer bottle on the coffee table. No Miguel.

Where are you, you bastard?

I signaled again. Clear.

We moved to the back door. Deadeye tried the knob. Locked. Holler pulled a slim jim from inside his cut and had the latch popped in under ten seconds. The sound it made was barely a whisper.

He glanced at me. I nodded.

Pushing the door inward, I crossed the threshold first.

Something heavy connected with my skull. A baseball bat. A pipe. I didn’t see it. My vision fractured white, and my shoulder hit the wall. The impact rattled my teeth. My knees tried to buckle, but I locked them. The world tilted sideways and then snapped back, sharp and too bright around the edges.

Holler and Deadeye moved past me, their weapons drawn but their movements controlled.

I pushed off the wall. My head pounded with every heartbeat, a dull roar that tried to drown out everything else. But my vision had cleared. That was all I needed.

“I was wondering when you’d show up.” His voice was soft. Almost pleasant. “Took you longer than I expected.”

Miguel stood near the kitchen island, a tire iron dangling from his right hand. His posture remained relaxed. Casual. Like he hadn’t just tried to cave in my skull.

“Calvin said you were going to kill me.” He smiled that empty smile. “He has so much undeserved faith in you.”

Holler’s gun stayed fixed on Miguel’s chest. Deadeye had shifted to cover the hallway. Neither spoke.

“He was always meant to be mine, you know.” Miguel set the tire iron on the counter with a soft clink. His right hand dipped toward his waistband. “I watched over him while Ramos did time. Calvin is smart. Loyal. Desperate for someone to see him.” His fingers wrapped around the grip of a pistol. “I’ve been patient. Watched him grow up. Watched him struggle. Waited for the right moment.”

“You’ve been delusional.” My wolf lunged against my ribs. I kept my face still.

Miguel laughed. The sound had no warmth. “You think you know him? You’ve had him for what, a week? I’ve watched him for years. Learned everything about him. Everything he fears. Everything he wants.” He lifted the gun, finally, aiming it at my chest. “I was going to take my time. Let him grieve his brother. Let him lean on me.” His gaze flicked to the side. “But then Ramos got out early, and you showed up.”

Movement in the hallway.

A man stepped out of the darkness—tall, broad, with features that belonged in a cage. He saw us, saw the guns, and his hand went straight to his waistband.

Deadeye didn’t flinch.

He closed the distance before the man could raise his weapon. The gunshot cracked through the kitchen, deafening in the small space. Deadeye took it in the side, the bullet punching through leather and flesh. He didn’t stop. His hands found the man’s wrist, wrenched the weapon free, and then punched the stranger so hard his feet left the ground.

I charged Miguel.

The gun came up, aimed at my head.

“But then you had to interfere.”

Holler’s weapon rose first. Deadeye’s followed a heartbeat later. Neither of them fired.

“Calvin’s not yours.” The words scraped past my throat, raw and guttural. Blood trickled down the back of my neck, hot and wet. “He’s never been yours.”

He got one shot off. The bullet went wide, burying itself in the drywall behind me. Then I hit him, driving my shoulder into his midsection and lifting him off his feet. We crashed into the kitchen table. Wood splintered. A chair toppled. Miguel’s head snapped back against the tile floor, but he didn’t go limp.

His knee drove into my ribs. Once. Twice. The pain flared hot and sharp, and my grip loosened just enough for him to twist free. He grabbed a knife from the counter—a chef’s knife, eight inches of stainless steel—and swung.

I caught his forearm before the blade found my throat. We strained against each other, muscles shaking. Miguel’s eyes were bright now. Alive. Like this was exactly what he’d wanted all along.

“You’re stronger than I expected,” he said, his voice still calm. Still conversational. “But it doesn’t matter. Even if you kill me, you’ll never scrub me out of him. I’m in his head now. In his fears. Every time he closes his eyes, he’ll see me.”