Page 9 of Stay Little Fighter

The back door slides open, and two men dressed all in black stand at the edge of the van with their guns raised.

“Get out,” one of them barks.

Damon’s jaw tightens, but he lifts the hand not pressed to my stomach in the air.

“Both hands.”

“She’s been shot. I need to keep pressure on the wound,” he says calmly.

“Both. Hands.” His finger tightens on the trigger, and I barely manage to swallow the sob that tries to escape.

Oh god.

I can’t watch Damon die.

Regardless of how much he’s hurt me and how unforgivable the things he’s done are, watching him bleed out in front of me would destroy me.

I squeeze his hand, silently telling him to do as they ask and hold my own hands over my stomach. It’s not the same amount of pressure by any means, but it will have to do for now.

Damon lifts his other hand into the air with his jaw clenched.

“Get out.”

He follows the command slowly, carefully unfolding his body from the back of the van.

“She can’t walk,” he tells them.

A flashlight illuminates their backs, giving me my first proper view of the two of them. The guys who snatched us are still in the front seat watching our every move.

The guy I now realize is blonde rolls his eyes, as if my being shot is the biggest inconvenience of his night.

Mine too, buddy, I think to myself.

“You shot her?” he snaps at the driver.

“She stepped in front of a bullet meant for him.”

“Boss is going to be pissed.”

“She’ll get over it.”

Damon’s eyes clash with mine.

She?

While we haven’t narrowed down which of the guys is being targeted, we’ve been going on the assumption that it’s Kingston. But as far as I know, there were no women on the list of suspects, and the only people that have been removed so far were those that didn’t have the means to hire this level of support.

The blonde sighs and drags me to the edge of the van by my ankle before throwing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

A pained cry slips from my throat before I can swallow it, agony slicing through my abdomen with a renewed fire.

If I’d known how much being shot would hurt, I might have reconsidered jumping in front of that bullet.

“Be careful with her,” Damon growls.

“You’re not really in the position to be making demands, Lombardi.” The dark-haired man smirks, as if my pain is the most amusing thing in the world to him.

And maybe it is.