A hard fist hooked Zayne's jaw and knocked his head to the side. Sharp pain tore through his face.
“Zayne!” Kira screamed.
Tensing, he held his footing, and braced in time for the second hit, this one to his cheek.
Hot blood washed over his tongue.
The third punch came before he registered the pain of the last. Faster than he expected.
Harder.
A blinding force slammed into his temple, knocking him back. The pain of the hits flooded him, dizziness throwing the room into a spin. He caught himself against the wall, blinking at the black dots spreading over his vision. Spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor.
Gritting his teeth as blood dripped down his chin, Zayne caught his father's eyes and willed him to pour his rage into these hits so nothing of his vengeance remained for Kira.
She hadn't stopped screaming or fighting to rip free from Luke. His brother's good arm clamped around her middle, holding her arms down. Sling hanging loose, he covered her mouth with the hand of the injured one. The sight of Kira smashed against his brother's chest, tears streaming down her face, flooded his muscles with fire and all the energy he needed to rip the other man's head off his body.
A brutal punch rocked Zayne's gut while he was distracted. A grunt wrenched from his clenched teeth. Pain shot through the wound in his back, the torn muscles complaining at his torso twisting.
Good thing he'd taken so much PXI.
He struggled for his next breath.
Across the room, Kira fought with renewed vigor, unable to break free. His brother's hand muffled her screams.
Father gripped his shirt and drove him back against the wall so hard his head busted through the drywall.
The entire room shook.
“Get her under fucking control.” He grabbed Zayne's face with the same kind of conflicting force he often exerted toward him, hard and unyielding, but somehow tender. “It has to be her blood next time if you can't. Is that what you want, son?”
“No, sir.” Blood spilled from his mouth when he spoke, dribbling from his chin onto his shirt. He kept his eyes trained on his father's, meeting his gaze head-on when he desperately wanted to check on Kira.
The High General's face scrunched, frown deepening.
He gripped Zayne's shoulders and threw him down against his knee. Pain knifed between his ribs.
Zayne didn't resist his father shoving him to the ground. Nor the boot that slammed into his side, his gut, his ribs.
Every hit ripped at his back until a kick landed so close to his wound that a scream lodged in Zayne's chest. He gasped, gripped by pain.
What if it bled? Shit.
He lifted enough for his father's boot to hook below his body, so he could roll onto his back. Fire seared the injury, but the ground now hid it from sight. Hishead rolled to the side, vision swimming from lack of oxygen and the hit to his temple. Pain swelled by the second, his ribs and back on fire.
He waited for the next kick, but it didn't come. That gave him the chance to drag in a full breath, chest aching.
Father tore across the room for Kira and ripped her from Luke. Threw her to the ground in front of Zayne.
An instinct too deeply rooted to stop drove Zayne forward, and he slid beneath her, his chest breaking her fall, hand catching the back of her head.
Clambering up on her forearms, Kira crawled over him, sheltering him from his father.
But the High General pushed her off Zayne. Towered over her.
“You forced me to hit my own kid.” He looked down on her with ruthlessly unsympathetic eyes. “I told you I don't like it when my son is hurt.”
Zayne's muscles clenched, deepening the cramping in his side and back.
