"Give me your gun," I order, hand shooting toward him.
My psychopath turns from the Noth he was firing on behind us. His head tilts as he studies me before he grins, unaware of the cause of my bloodlust. Completely clueless that his king is dead.
But my mate recognizes the wild gleam in my eyes. The vengeance thrumming through me.
He doesn't hand me the weapon in his grip, but reaches behind himself, into a holster in his waistband. The gun he brings out is clearly his pride and joy, a custom red Beretta.
"Princess." He bows his head slightly for a split second before leaping onto a chair and firing at a Noth slinking up the aisle. "No you don't, motherfucker!"
Checking the magazine as I've been trained to do, I find myself surprised to note that I'm not shaking. Single-minded determination burns the back of my throat and fills me with a sense of purpose that overrides everything else.
My vision sharpens, as does my sense of smell. Dust, gunpowder, and the morbid scent of blood fill the air, along with the raging clash of alpha pheromones. But my focus narrows, everything surrounding Pedro dimming, as if that bastard stepped into a spotlight.
I take a step forward only to find Ridge blocking my path, the bulletproof vest he wears brushing against my chest. My blond alpha's jaw twitches. Our eyes war with one another, his will against mine.
"Let me," he murmurs in a tone that would soothe any other omega, maybe make her melt at the protectiveness, the instantaneous and willing sacrifice.
But my nostrils flare, primal need driving me as I shake my head, denying him, not because I don't love his offer. I do. Never in my life did I think I'd have men who'd risk everything for me. Who'd want to use their last breath to protect me.
It's the most precious gift he could ever give.
But I have to refuse it—because I don't want my alphas to fight for me, butwithme.
"Together," I whisper.
He inhales sharply, and I can practically feel the reticence wafting from him in palpable waves. I know instinct immediately drives him to deny me, and his neck strains as he battles internally. Alpha drive versus omega request.
But then Ridge gives me a single nod of agreement, and that particular gesture is like the sun breaking over a mountain peak, casting warm light across my soul.
He steps aside, and we both raise our weapons. But we pause as someone flies at Pedro, tackling him from behind and making him stumble.
Clinging like a rabid animal, Mom wraps her manicured fingers around Pedro's face, scratching and pulling, clawing like a cat, dislodging his bandana and revealing a series of ugly, raised pink scars that stretch up from his jawline and stripe the lower half of his face.
They fall, tipping toward the steps. Her hair flies up, wide curls turned to frizz, perfect eyeliner smudged with tear tracks, lipstick smeared across her teeth as a feral scream belts out.
If her eyes were glowing blue, I'd think she'd been infected with the Harpax drug. She looks nearly as mad as they did. But she's only mad with grief—an alpha who has lost her omega.
For a split second, she's someone I admire, someone willing to fight for her loved one.
Pedro's gun arm swings up, and he fits the muzzle to her thigh.
The blast startles me even though I expect it.
Her failure to scream surprises me even more.
It's almost as if she doesn't feel the wound, even though a deluge of red, thick as a wave, starts to leak from her leg. She's too busy gouging at his eyes, one pink fingernail gliding into his eye and swirling.
Unlike her, Pedro doesn't hold back. His screech rings out wildly, and his hands flail and clench, firing off a random bullet. It pings into a column near me and sends plaster flecks flying.
Immediately I train my gun on him, trying to find a target that doesn't include my mother in the shot.
But she's slowly sliding down his back, clinging only by that hand that's dug into his socket. With a rage-filled yell, he flings her off, and she flies like a napkin, limbs crumpled.
I shoot, and the gun kicks back in my hands, the scent of lead hot in my nostrils.
He winces as his arms curve over his gut. They come away red, and his gun swings toward me. One eye is a bloody mess, matted with tears and red and ooze. The other is the same dark abyss I faced during my kidnapping. An eye devoid of sympathy that squints as he tries to focus on me.
I can tell the second he recognizes me because his posture stiffens for a split second before he leers.
