“Except you beat a woman half to death who has nothing to do with any of this,” his head tips to the side. “What’s the angle there, Owen? You’ve had plenty of opportunities to take your shot at Karson.”
I’m getting impatient. I shove through Maverick and Cole, producing a pocket knife from my back pocket and flip the blade open. Thrusting it into his abs, I twist.
His head falls back as he lets out a scream. The sound blankets the room and I smile.
“You made a big mistake by going after her instead of me. You see,” I twist the blade again. Owen breathes heavily through clenched teeth, spit flying from his mouth. “If it was me you came for, I would have made this quick.”
Twist.
“But now, you’ll be begging for me to kill you long before I’m finished.”
Owen attempts to laugh through ragged breaths. He lowers his head to look me directly in the eye.
“I wanted you,” he gets out, barely. “Someone else wanted her.”
My blood runs cold.
“Win win.”
My hand stills on the knife. The room goes silent. Maverick steps forward first.
“Explain that,” he says flatly.
Owen’s grin spreads through blood and pain.
“I don’t have to.”
I rip the blade free. He gasps as blood pours from the gaping wound in his side. The sound barely registers. Because something colder than rage spreads through me now.
Understanding.
This wasn’t just him. This wasn’t just revenge.
Cole straightens slowly. “Karson…”
Owen laughs again, wet, broken and satisfied.
“I got what I wanted,” he rasps.
I stare at him, my fingers flexing around the blade before I move forward again.
“Looks like this is going to have to be quicker than I wanted,” I say with a grin, “too bad.” I step back into him, and with one final thrust, the blade lands on the side of his neck.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
A sharp painin my chest wakes me accompanied by an incessant throbbing in my skull. My lashes flutter open, the room still dimly lit and the curtains closed to block out as much light as possible. Scanning the room, I see Parker sitting in a chair next to the bed, scrolling on her phone.
Pushing my palms into the mattress, I try to push myself into a more upright position, but hiss as my ribs scream in protest again.
“Let me help you,” Parker says, hurriedly standing from the chair.
I hold up my hand, stopping her in her tracks.
“I got it,” I tell her, straining on the words, my throat still like sandpaper.
Her jaw clenches. “You don’t.”
Before I can argue, a soft knock sounds at the door before the doctor steps in, tablet in hand, his expression calm.
