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Feed the blade. Watch the light fade.
Pull her closer. Keep her safe, safe, safe.
Jessica was bent, eyes locked on Beck as sobs wracked her body.
Mickey had Jessica by her hair at his side, victorious smirk on his face and gun in hand.
Pride surged through me, seeing the bloodied nail marks across his cheek and the blood swirling down his arm.
She fought.
“Your dad would be disappointed in what you’ve turned into,” Mickey said, like those words had the power to hurt me.
“Because I’m not you?”
“Because you’re weak,” he said, malice in his tone. “I’ve watched my friends die. I’ve buried my children. Do you think I ever cried?”
My stare flashed to movement behind Mickey, and I slowly dropped my knife to pick up what lay between Beck and me. “Then he would be proud that I hated what the two of you created in me too much to cry over his death. Or yours.”
His mouth pulled into that blinding smile as he raised his gun at me. “I’ll make sure we don’t cry over yours.”
“You’re touching what’s mine,” I said in a grave tone and lifted Beck’s gun, taking aim at the man I’d fantasized of killing for most my life.
Mickey laughed long and loud and jerked Jessica closer to him. “Oh, please pull that trigger. I’d love to watch you try to hit me seeing as you don’t know how to use a gun.”
I nodded toward the house. “He does.”
Mickey didn’t have time to turn before Conor fired, pulling the trigger again and again until he’d emptied his entire magazine into the boss of Holloway.
I had already pushed to my feet and was running toward Jessica, grabbing her and pulling her away before Mickey could fall to the ground.
I ran my hands over her tear-streaked face, looking for any sign that he’d hurt her before wrapping her in my arms. Her body shook with sobs, her fingers trembling as she gripped my shirt to pull me closer.
My chest heaved with uneven, ragged breaths as I held her, trying to force myself to say something to her.
Tell her it was over. Tell her it was okay.
But Beck was somewhere behind me in a pool of blood. Nothing was okay.
I twisted to find Conor already beside his brother, knees bent and head dropped low as he squeezed Beck’s hand. His agonized cries slaying me.
I hissed and jerked away from Jessica’s touch, grabbing her hand before she could brush against my shoulder again.
She looked up, her face falling when she saw the entry wound from Tommy’s bullet. She stammered for something to say then forced out, “What happ . . . Are you okay?”
Dropping her hand, I tilted her head back and locked on to her red, swollen eyes. “If you want to talk to Beck, we need to go.”
I didn’t want to think of the possibility that it was already too late.
She tried to drop her head, her hands flattening on my chest just below where I’d been shot. “Kieran, are you—?”
“I’m fine.” I tried to sound assuring, because physically, I was. Pulling her toward Conor’s cries, I whispered, “Beck needs you.”
Her face crumpled and her shoulders sagged, but she nodded weakly.
When we were a few feet from the brothers, Jessica slipped away from me and hurried to Beck’s side, dropping to her knees as a hard sob sounded in her chest.
My splintered heart wrenched when he weakly lifted a hand to touch her arm.
