Page 163 of The Rust in Her Hair

No more dancing, no more running my mouth.

I step inside the asshole’s reach, and I go to work on his body. My fists connect with his gut, driving under his ribs, once, twice, a third time. Each one landing in the same soft place.

Crispin sucks in a sharp breath that never finishes. It turns into a thin, wet wheeze, and I feel something give under my knuckles on the last one. And I smile, praying that broken rib just punctured a lung.

And now I want that jaw.

That smug, chiseled, magazine-cover jaw. I set my feet and I bring an uppercut straight up into it, all my weight rising through my legs. Crispin’s head snaps back the second I make contact. His knees instantly quit on him, and he goes down hard.

I'm on him before he can blink.

Then I unleash hell on the fucker.

I hit him until his face stops looking like a face. Until his smug smile is gone and there's only red and swelling and the wet sound of leather hitting flesh. His hands come up at some point and get two weak fistfuls of my shirt, but they don't pull. They hang on to me, the way a man will hang onto anything when he's about to go under.

The asshole tries to talk, but his words come out ruined, pushed through broken teeth and blood.

"Anything," he manages to say and a red bubble rises. "Whatever you want. Name it. I'll make you rich. Richer than you can—" He coughs, and it sprays wet in dark. "Anything you want."

I love a desperate man on the verge of death.

Taking a deep breath, I sit back on my heels and peel the mask off my face, dropping it on the floor next to me. Then I fist both hands in his suit jacket and I haul him halfway up off the concrete so he can see me clearly.

One of Crispin’s eyes is already swollen shut, a fat purple seam. The other one rolls, loose and unfocused, and then it finds me. It drifts over my bare face, still trying to figure out who the fuck I am.

"You hurt Lyra," I growl softly.

For half a second, he doesn't react, then his one good eye goes wide, wide enough that I know he finally understands what he did.

"That’s right, motherfucker." A slow, wicked grin spreads across my face. "You made my sweet Lyra bleed. Then you attacked my beta." I snarl, "This is what happens when you fuck with a pack." I release his jacket, letting his upper body fall back onto the dirty ground.

He shakes his head and his mouth opens, but all that comes out is a wet wheeze and thick bubbles of blood.

I can’t help but laugh. "Now," I pull one fist back, "are you ready to die at the hands of a fucking commoner?"

My gloved fist lands hard near his temple. His head snaps to the side and the fight finally goes out of him, his body going limp against the concrete.

I don't drag it out. I’m not taking any pleasure in this. This is simply what I have to do to keep my mates safe, and I happen to be the one built to do it.

Leaning forward, I get a hand under the asshole's jaw and one at the back of his skull. His body is dead weight, knocked completely out.

"This is what you get for hurting my omega and hitting my beta," I tell him, quiet.

Then I twist, sharp and clean, and the crack of his spine echoes off the concrete. His breathing stops, and it's done.

I take a minute to collect myself, my breath sawing in and out. My hands are wrecked, shaking hard within my leather gloves, but I can't feel them.

“Get moving,” I tell myself, then I stand up, trying to force my knees to stop shaking. The adrenaline in my body is riding me hard, but I’ve still got a lot of work to do.

I dig the burner out of my pocket. It's a cheap, flimsy little thing that feels like a toy in my busted hand. It takes me two tries to make my fingers work the button. The screen lights up dim in the dark.

Seven minutes.

That's all it's been. Seven minutes since Crispin walked out of that elevator. It feels like I've been down here half my life. I stare at the time a second longer because it doesn't seem possible that a man's whole account can come due in seven minutes, but then I put the phone away and force myself to focus.

I pick my mask up off the ground and pull it back down over my face, making sure my hair is tucked.

Stick to the plan, I say as I scan all around me, trying to find my damn pipe. Then I see it, not two feet from me, right next to Crispin’s shitty car.