Page 2 of Stay Little Fighter

Not if I want to give her every second of head start I can.

I’m halfway down the cellar steps when my father drags the door to her cell open, irritation rolling off him in waves.

His eyes meet mine, fury burning in the dark pools. “Lock the door. I’ll deal with the girl once the compound is secure.”

He’s not speaking to me specifically, but I nod anyway, moving toward the metal door and pretending to snap the lock in place.

I glance in through the small window at the top, my chest tightening at the sight of Chloe’s tears. They’ve been almost nonstop for days, and every single one is like a fresh cut in my armor.

It takes a few seconds before she realizes the lock never engaged, and I barely manage to duck out of view as she glances toward the door.

I remain plastered against the wall for long seconds, listening for any sign that she’s trying to escape.

Holding my breath, I internally beg her to fight, and then it comes.

A soft yelp of pain.

Pride fills my chest when I chance one final look through the window and find her clutching her hand to her chest.

I taught her that. I taught her how to get out of wrist restraints if she was ever taken, and I’m relieved she remembered.

Lingering for one final second, I press my forehead to the steel door and drag in a breath.

This could very well be the last time we’re in close proximity, and there are a million things I’m desperate to say.

But instead, I suck in a breath and turn on my heel, intent to keep our men distracted for long enough for her to escape.

If I want to ever be able to look my brother in the eye again, I have to make sure she and the baby escape, even if I never breathe a word of my assistance to anyone.

CHAPTER ONE

CHLOE

NOW

I’ve had a lot of really dumb ideas over the years.

Like that time I got bangs because I saw a celebrity with them and assumed I would look as cute as she did.

Or when I pretended I was interested in Steven Picking in freshman year to make the brothers jealous, only to get the poor guy beaten to a pulp for touching me.

But this is going straight to the top of the list.

Because I just threw myself in front of a bullet for the man that has made it his mission in life to make me miserable.

For almost fifteen years, he’s gone out of his way to hurt me, to make me feel worthless and unwanted, and yet for some reason self-preservation abandoned ship as I stepped in front of him.

Fiery pain radiates through my abdomen, but the pain doesn’t stay localized. It spreads throughout my body like a wildfire.

I hit the ground hard, but I’m too wrapped up in agony to feel the extra pain.

I’m vaguely aware of my own tears as stars dance in my vision, but I can’t tell if it’s from the panic of being shot or because the bullet hit something important.

If I spent all these years on the run just to die taking a bullet for Damon, I’m going to be really fucking irritated.

Even if it was a decision I made for myself.

Knees hit the ground beside me, and I blink up into panicked ice-blue eyes. His hands hover above me, but he hesitates to touch me despite how deeply I crave it.