His smile slips. “What did you fucking call me?”
“I called you a limp-dicked asshole. Want me to spell it out for you too or?—”
He stands with a roar, his eyes bright with cocaine and rage. “You fucking cunt. Come over here and say that to my face.”
“I just said it to your face, asshole.”
His eyes grow wild. An ugly sneer spreads across his wet lips.
“Come a little closer, whore. I fucking dare you.”
That’s when I feel him behind me. A silent thundercloud at my back.Silas.
Turning around, I come face-to-face with the most terrifying man in the fucking world.
Does he know this loser?
“Need help?” he asks, as casually as ordering a coffee. But I know better than to be tied with this motherfucker, who most likely purposely hung back for a moment to see what I’d do. It doesn’t matter. This isn’t a performance for him or anyone else. This is my unfiltered rage, which at times has gotten me into a lot of fucking trouble.
But anything goes when you knock out my best friend,my voice says in an unhinged singsong voice.
My gaze drops to his waistband, and a smile blossoms within me when I see the gun. “No, thank you. I have this under control.”
“Silas, I didn’t know—” the man begins spluttering. There’s a second of logic that reminds me I don’t know whose crew this man is from, or how it might implicate things for me—quickly squashed by the lethal edge and need to protect Nessa. No man hurts what I love and gets away with it. Not now. Not ever. Not anymore.
My hand touches his shirt, just above his waistband, where his gun is. He raises a perfect brow, and before he can stop me, I remove the gun from his body and turn around to aim it at the fucker still smoking and trying to blubber excuses as if Silas is the one to be feared.
He doesn’t even acknowledge me until his gaze drops to the gun, and he smiles, as if I’m joking.
Because I’m a woman, not to be taken seriously.
That he should be allowed to do as he wants with a woman, because he feels so fucking entitled.
I pull the trigger.
The bullet slams into his thigh, and his scream echoes through the room. People gather behind me, but I ignore them and walk up to the asshole bleeding all over the club’s luxurious black carpet.
I’m going to shoot him again.
Maybe in the knee.
Maybe in both.
Or maybe I’ll do the world a favor and shoot him in his ugly, smug face.
That’s the funny thing about not being taken seriously. They don’t think you have it in you until they push you over the edge. And unfortunately for him, my being over the edge doesn’t work in his favor. Because I relish in his fucking screams and the way the fear grows in his eyes. That he’s finally acknowledged the Grim Reaper we have in all of us. Some of us just hide it better.
As I take aim, a big hand wraps around my wrist.
“Give it to me, now,” Silas says. A cold chill drips over me.
“I don’t do well being told what to do,” I growl, wondering if I should turn the gun on him as well. It’d solve one of my problems.
“You have an audience. It’ll be harder to get away with this if he’s dead by your hands in such a public execution. Think of Nessa and Larissa.”
I grow colder, hating the fact that he knows my weakness so clearly. That I would do anything for them. But it works, and I lower the gun.
Without looking at him, I hand the gun back to Silas, then bend down to pick up the burning cigarette. The asshole is crying and clutching his leg, too weakened and distracted by pain to predict my next move. Just because I don’t have a gun doesn’t mean I can’t still make my point.
