Page 55 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

He presses his hand to his nose to stop the bleeding. Blood pours out past his fingers anyway, which gives me an odd sort of satisfaction. It’s always nice to get one up on an asshole.

“Answer me,” I demand.

His nasal voice is muffled as he says, “I shut her up for good.”

My vision turns red. My hands shake with fury and my blood boils.

I rush the kidnapper. He turns and runs, bursting through a door into a kitchen.

I charge in after him and leap toward his legs. As I slam into him, he falls face-first into the kitchen counter, and his body goes limp.

“Motherfucker,” I shout even though he can’t hear me. “I’m going to kill you for what you’ve done.”

My entire being fills with rage. He deserves to die for murdering my fated mate, but I’ve never killed a man while he was down before. I always waited until they woke up again. This won’t be self-defense or a hit ordered by my handler.

Revenge. It will be revenge.

Chapter 26

Asgard

I stare at the unconscious person on the kitchen floor. He deserves to die. He has to pay for what he did to my fated mate.

Killing him while he’s unconscious, though? I shake my head. It would be too easy. I’d be letting him off the hook, and I want him to suffer for killing my mate. I want him to spend the rest of his life paying for it—first at my hands, and then in jail. I’ll make sure he rots behind bars and regrets what he’s done for decades until he draws his last breath.

“You are going to suffer for what you did,” I growl when I hear a soft whoosh of a knife being pulled from a block.

The old woman in pajamas who I’d originally spotted on the patio is now standing on the other side of the kitchen. If she’s had the time to cross the yacht club, I’ve been here way too fucking long.

Her stance is wobbly—probably arthritis in her knees and hips—which makes her easy to take down even if she is holding a knife.

I jump to my feet, and my vision swims. I’m going to make the water taxi driver pay for that, too. I take a step forward, and the old woman grabs the knife by the edge of the blade and pulls her arm back to throw it.

Pfft, everyone thinks they can throw knives but it takes skill, practice, and—

The metal flashes through the air and fiery pain shoots through my arm. The blade embeds into my bicep, and I glance at it in shock. How did she know how to do that?

She grabs another knife from a block, and I dart behind the kitchen’s center island. Her knife clatters against the wall behind me and hits the floor.

I clench my teeth, and with a grunt, pull the knife from my arm. Blood gushes out, soaking my jacket, but I ignore it for now and shift into raccoon form.

I heal faster this way—shifter magic and all that. I move faster, too. And a raccoon is a much smaller target for flying knives. The downside is that my front leg feels like lava from the wound, but I can run on three legs just fine.

I peer around the edge of the island just in time to see Knife-Throwing Granny shuffle through a back door and out of the building. She’s probably running for help. I can chase after her and stop her, or I can take this chance to grab the espresso machine in the hopes that I can somehow resurrect my mate. I don’t feel her anymore, but maybe… just maybe… she’s still in there somewhere. Or maybe she’s already gone.

What I know for sure is that with my injured arm, I won’t be able to lift her. Not even onto the rolling cart in the dining room. And I definitely won’t be able to haul her onto a water taxi or yacht for a while—I need time in order to heal.

I round the corner of the island and rush toward the back door. Leaping into the air, I grab the handle with my good paw and use the momentum to swing the door open. Fuck, that still hurt.

I drop down to the ground and limp after Knife-Throwing Granny across the grass. Once I catch her, I can use her as a hostage. I’ll get whatever security is left to stand down and help me get my fated mate onto a boat. I’ll get them to talk, too. Make them tell me what they did to her.

I don’t enjoy threatening people—or hurting them to make them talk—but I’ve done it enough that it’s easy.

“Intruder, intruder,” Knife-Throwing Granny cries in a shaky voice.

She races across the grass, taking small quick steps, but she’s no match for me. I rush her and clamp down on the back of her knee. I’m still in raccoon form, but my sharp teeth are enough to tear her flesh and topple her. She cries out and drops to the grass with a thump.

“Get away from her!” a large man in an apron shouts in a booming voice.