Page 155 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
I stand up straight, heart racing, pulse pounding. My ears are still ringing, and my entire body hurts from the bomb blast. I haven’t had a chance to assess my injuries, but that isn’t important right now.
Right now, I have to survive my brother’s wrath.
“I know Cat far better than you ever will,” I tell Gaz, lifting my chin up, panting and bleeding and still struggling through the disorientation caused by the explosion. My chest feels tight, and I’m fighting the urge to cough. A coughing fit right now would not suit me well.
I move around the desk and Gaz scowls, lifting up the weapon and pointing it at me. The thing is, shooting me right now isn’t a great choice for him either. He can tell Cat that I’m a traitor, but what’s it going to look like when our father walks in and sees his last remaining daughter, dead at her own wedding reception from a gunshot wound?
The club isn’t stupid. They know how to send things in for forensic testing; they even have a lab in Portland that works for them. Cat would figure out what sort of gun the bullet came from. He’d make connections. Gaz knows all of that.
“That’s part of the reason you hate me: because I’m the son he always wanted.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Gaz screams, storming across the room toward me as I surreptitiously slip Queenie’s knife from my pocket and palm it in my left hand. He gave this knife to her, before she ever gifted it to me. Ironic, isn’t it? That I’m going to use the gift that Gaz gave Queenie to try to kill him.
His fury is impressive, terrifying really. It’s so potent, so unhinged. It makes no sense. It also makes him sloppy; I’m counting on that.
“It isn’t my fault that Cat loves me more,” I say, even though I’m not exactly sure that’s a true statement. It could be. It really could be. But I don’t know. One thing I do know for sure: I’m right about my previous declaration. If I’d been born with a dick, I would’ve been the perfect child for Cat.
My brother’s rage takes over him, and he aims the gun at me, intending to shoot me somewhere non-vital, I’m guessing. When he lifts the weapon, I grab the glass bottle of ink that’s on the desk’s surface with my right hand. It’s India ink, I believe, more of a décor item than anything that gets practical use. There’s a quill pen lodged in it, but I’ve never seen anyone actually use it.
Until now.
I throw the bottle in my brother’s face. Not only is it made of heavy glass and probably hurts like a bitch, but ink goes everywhere. Into his eyes. Onto the books lining the walls. Spatters all down Gaz’s front.
Without breaking my stride, I throw myself into him and jam the knife into his gut. He’s briefly disoriented, firing the gun at the ceiling and knocking plaster loose as we topple to the floor. He’s bigger than me, stronger than me, but I’m scrappy as fuck. That, and I’ve been training with Beast.
Nobody knows how to fight better than he does.
Thankfully, the gun falls from Gaz’s hand, skidding across the carpet and out of immediate reach. My brother doesn’t seem to give a shit. He assumes that, because he’s so much larger than me, because he’s a man, he has all of the advantages.
He might be physically stronger than I am, but he’s stupid and angry and wounded.
I harness my rage and bring it under control, turning my mind into a cool, quiet place where my fears for the boys and Reba and Grey are blurred and distant. This moment, this fight, that’s all that matters.
The blood streaming from Gaz’s wound makes my grip on the knife tenuous, but I manage to yank it out and attempt another thrust. Unfortunately, Gaz knocks my arm aside and sends the knife flying.
He rolls us over, putting me between his thighs. Predictably, the very first thing that he does is go for my throat. This is what Rhea Bundy must’ve seen in her last moments, I think, feeling for her at the same time that I know I’m different.
I will not go down like that poor girl.
As soon as Gaz wraps his hands around my throat, I grab his right wrist with my left hand, yanking it hard to one side. At the same time, I use my right palm to slam Gaz in the center of his chest. The move gives me just enough space to insert my left leg between us while my right foot comes up and nails him directly in the face.
He howls, flailing back as blood pours down his nose.
I’m not here to cosplay as an MMA fighter, so as soon as Gaz’s weight is off of me, I’m surging to my feet. All I need to do is grab the gun and it’s over.
