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Darcy tips over a side table and crouches behind it, gesturing for me to do the same. She laughs loudly as I barely dodge bullets flying my way, skidding behind the shelter, my heart racing.
“Sunday?”
“She’s fine,” Darcy says. “Isn’t this exciting?”
“Stop fucking shooting!” Michael bellows, and the bullets halt. Debris settles around us, the once-pretty room now riddled with holes, plaster dust and broken vases. “You killed my son, Darcy.”
She just about suppresses a giggle with her hand. “Oops.”
“I’m going to peel your fucking skin off.”
“Good, maybe I’ll get the memory of your touch off me!” She screeches back. “Fucking you was disgusting. Have you ever heard of exfoliation?”
Michael screams out his anger and must throw something, because the sound of shattering glass has Darcy erupting into more laughter. “You have no idea what you’ve done, you little bitch. I’m going to kill you, but first, I’m going to let every man in this room fuck you. You’re finally going to put that cunt to use, and you’re going to give me my money’s worth.”
I glance at Darcy, and her laughter and smile has faded, but it isn’t sadness or fear that replaces the joy. It’s resignation.
Felton never told me how he met Darcy. There was no meet-cute, she was just there one day, and she never left. Or at least, that’s how he told it.
It never occurred to me that she could be like the other women. Stolen, sold, bought, used, raped, killed. Maybe she managed to survive because she became Felton’s favorite and did anything and everything in her power to not become another woman buried in the grounds of this awful place.
“Yeah, well.” She rests her head back on the table shielding us, tilting her head to look at me. Her smile returns. “No refunds, mother fucker. Cage, cover me.”
I blink. “Wait, what—”
She leaps up and I curse, turning and pushing myself to a knee. I balance the butt of the gun against my palm, take aim and fire at anyone looking in Darcy’s direction. She twirls the fire poker with expertise, like it’s a weapon she’s wielded her whole life, a maniacal grin on her face as she strides forward. Michael backs away, but there’s no way she’ll get to him with the number of men still standing.
One goes for her. She swings and connects hard with his face. Blood and teeth spit out of his mouth, and Darcy whirls, jabbing the sharp end of the poker into another man’s neck.
I shoot, taking down another who tries to grab her. She’s practically dancing her way between her victims, her movements like liquid as she spins with grace. Blood spatters against her dress and face, but she never stops smiling, her golden hair doused in red as she takes down man after man.
She drops to a knee, snatches up a nearby gun from a downed bodyguard, aims and fires. Brains burst free from the back of a man’s head and she cackles, shooting him twice more for … good measure, I suppose.
My ammo is already gone, and I toss the gun aside, striding into the fray. Someone grabs Darcy’s hair and she screams like a banshee. I seize him, wrapping my forearm around his neck. He chokes, releasing her, and I grunt as someone hits me from behind. Keeping hold of the man in a headlock, I drag him as I go for the other man. He stares at me, wide-eyed and clearly regretting his decision to piss me off—and he runs.
“Cage, get Michael!” Darcy shouts.
Michael’s men are down, and he’s standing too far from the Glock he threatened me with earlier. The heads of the other families are fleeing, scattering for exits, either alone or with a bodyguard if they have one left.
“I’m out of ammo!” I call back to her.
Darcy takes off her shoe and slams the spiked heel into a man’s eye. He screams and she throws me a ‘are you fucking kidding?’ look. “Improvise!”
The momentary distraction allows someone to throw a punch, landing hard across Darcy’s cheek. She stumbles, and I dart forward, but she’s pulled away from me—by Michael. He yanks her back to his chest, gripping her throat, his other arm around her waist.
Darcy, still stunned from the hit, loses her footing, only kept upright by Michael’s arm tight around her. She doesn’t fight as he drags her out of the dining room and through the veranda doors, out into the night. I curse, snatching up the abandoned Glock and following.
“Michael!” I call out, aiming the gun at him. He whirls to face me, his back to the pool as he clings to Darcy like a human shield. “Let her go. It’s over.”
His face drips with sweat, eyes wild and bloodshot. He’s got nowhere to go. No one to save him this time.
“I’m getting out of here, and you’re going to help me,” he says, wetting his lips. Darcy blinks fast as her confusion fades and struggles in Michael’s grip. “Do you understand me, Cage?”
I adjust the gun in my grip. “Not happening.”
“Shoot him, Cage!” Darcy shouts. “I don’t give a fuck.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Michael hisses in her ear.
