“Don’t,” he mouths, begging me with his eyes. “Don’t do it.”
For once, I want to please him. A criminal. A man. I’d give anything to grant his wish. Instead, I paste on a regretful smile, hoping he understands the apology that comes with it.
I should’ve told him what was happening when we were alone in the bedroom. I should’ve let down my guard and believed his promises. Then this situation might have ended differently.
But the bad guys always win.
“She does what she’s told,” Luther seethes. “Otherwise she knows the consequences.”
I straighten, hearing the threat loud and clear.
“What’s to stop her shooting you?” Cole asks.
“She could try. But she’d be dead before she had time to aim. And then I’d kill all her friends just to spite her.”
That’s why I have no choice. That’s why I have to take Luca’s gun.
I reach for the weapon a few feet away, my fingers tingling as my palm slides over the blood-slicked exterior. It’s a strange sensation—touching a gun for the first time. The slightest ebb of power flows through me as I grip the cold metal in both hands.
If only I could shoot Luther. If I had the experience and skills to risk everything on a quick draw, I would.
Luca’s hand reclaims my wrist, the fingers trailing slowly over my skin. “Give it here,” he mouths.
I want to. I want nothing more than to let him continue to be the savior he promised to be. I just can’t. I won’t place my life in the hands of a stranger. Nor the lives of the women waiting for my return. Not when he’s possible heartbeats away from death.
“I’m sorry.” My lips form the silent words as remorse slaughters me from the inside out. “I’ve got the gun,” I announce to the room and stand.
I forget about the man at my feet. I shut out the guilt and shame.
“Keep it,” Cole slurs. “Don’t give it to Chris.”
“Don’t even think about it.” Luther jabs his son in the shoulder with his gun as if sensing an act of retaliation. “You’re predictable. Always have been.”
“Too bad you’ve already admitted you won’t kill me, old man.”
I ignore their squabbling and focus on what has to be done. Everything fades away as my bare feet trek the cool tile toward the glass door covered by a sheer curtain. I can already see Chris standing in wait on the other side. I can feel his darkness. Can predict more bloodshed.
“Tell Penny not to give him the gun and we can talk this out.” Cole’s words are garbled. “That’s what you want, right? To show me the error of my ways?”
I shut him out. I shut everything out.
There’s only the wild beat of my pulse and hollowness. An empty void carves its existence into my soul, preparing me for death.
I don’t stop my progression toward the door. I don’t pause even though the only option I have makes my heart stutter.
Life doesn’t flash before my eyes—it blinks slowly. Snapshots of memories I’ve longed to forget assail me. I see my parents. My brothers. My friends. Everything drifts into my mind until I reach the curtain and pull it aside.
“Tell her to stop. Do it.” Cole raises his voice. “Penny. Don’t. Don’t be stupid.”
The argument continues behind me. I’m sure the sound of a scuffle or a fight brushes my ears, but all I see is Chris. The cold stare. The conniving smirk.
His crimes come back to haunt me as I tighten the gun in my grip, yet there’s no uncertainty in his expression. There’s no doubt in his mind I’ll hand over the weapon like a good little slave.
His opinion of me is humiliating.
The condescension. The superiority.
I unflick the lock and yank the door wide, the sea breeze kissing my cheeks while his smirk increases.
He doesn’t rush me. He only provokes with his confident leer, waiting for me to comply to yet another demand. Even with a weapon drawn in his direction he’s entirely certain I won’t shoot him. How could I when a lifetime of conditioning has ensured I’ll obey?
“No,” Cole yells, the protest ringing in my ears.
I don’t want to do this. I’m scared. Nauseous.
I raise the gun in both hands, slowly inching it toward my enemy, the aim creeping from his feet, along his legs, to his stomach.
The more dire my aim, the more Chris smirks.
“That’s a good pretty Penny,” he drawls, the taunt barely audible yet deeply unsettling.
Cole shouts another protest. There’s another scuffle of feet. Then a warning from Luther.
A million rampant heartbeats pass and still the smirk beaming back at me doesn’t falter. Not until I force myself to smile back, my lips slowly lifting in a mirrored taunt.
For a second, the most beautiful sight of trepidation blinks back at me. All it takes is a squeeze of the trigger to cement his fear in place.
Pop. Pop.
My arms shake with the blasts. My ears ring.
Chris jolts with both impacts, his eyes widening, his skin turning pale as a lake of red seeps from the holes in his shirt.
His descent is fluid, almost beautiful, as he falls backward, sailing through the air until his head hits the cement tile with a deafening crack.
Pride rushes through me as the gun slides from my fingers and a sob of achievement escapes my throat.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” Luther roars.
Yes, he will. That outcome was always blindingly obvious.
I close my eyes, raise my face to the dawning sun, and wait for piercing bullets to take my life.
“Get down,” Cole yells. “Hide.”
I don’t move. I crave the anticipated peace. I want the freedom of death.
“I’ve got her.”
There’s more scuffling. Footsteps patter behind me. But that voice. It wasn’t Cole. Or Luther.
I spin. Luca charges toward me, his face stricken, the barrel of Luther’s gun quickly trekking his movements.
I open my mouth, a scream of warning about to launch from my throat.
Pop. Pop.
Luca slams into me and we fall backward, hitting the floor with enough force to wind me.
Shouts rain. A frenzy of movement ensues. But all I can do is gasp for air as I’m dragged behind the kitchen island counter and propped against the cupboards.
“Are you okay?” He crouches before me, his blood-covered hands roaming my face, shoulders, arms. “Were you shot?”
I shake my head as I struggle for breath.
The side of his head drips with crimson, the rivulets descending from his hairline as he continues to search me, his gaze stopping at my cream pants now splattered with red.
“It’s yours,” I murmur. “I’m not hurt.”
That penetrating gaze returns to mine, his intensity adding to the whir of adrenaline intoxicating my system.
“It’s not my blood,” I repeat. “I’m fine.”
He nods, the movement laced with a wince, then pivots toward the danger, his back to me as he raises one leg of his jeans and retrieves a knife from a sheath attached to his ankle.
“It’s over, Dad. Your new protege failed to inject me properly,” Cole mumbles the words. “Your dog is dead. And you fucked up when you thought you took Luca out.”
“You forget I’m the only one with a weapon, son.”