Page 42 of His Princess (A Man Who Knows What He Wants)

Several men rush at me, no longer shooting because they can’t risk killing one of their own. This is going to turn into a melee fight unless they can get some distance from me, and there’s no damn way I’m going to let that happen.

Not when my woman’s life is on the line.

“Get him, get him,” Aaron whines, his voice trembling like the pathetic coward he is.

The men jump at me, the whole mass of them intent on ending my life. But they don’t understand how badly I need to protect Ruby. There’s no way they could possibly comprehend what I’m willing to do to keep her safe.

Forever.

I throw my captive and immediately spring on the next one, as I let fly with a devastating uppercut. Somebody grabs me from behind and I spin, head-butting them and then spin again.

I whirl through the men, elbowing and punching and using my gun as a cruel metal tool of destruction.

Bones crack and men roar out as I charge at them, always making sure I’m too close for them to be able to raise their guns.

Aaron stands at the end of the hallway, his pistol at his side.

I see a flash of nervousness pass across his face as I duck under a clumsy overhand right and bring the barrel of my gun to my attacker’s chin.

I slam it into his throat, the air filling with his choking gasping noises.

I’ve taken several hits to the torso and the back of the head, but I don’t feel a thing as I throw myself around in a torrent of violence. I bring down a hail of fists on the men, right hooks, stiff jabs, bone-crushing strikes that throw them into the walls with a heavy impact.

I’m not sure how much time passes as I dance between them, feeling like ancient warriors must’ve felt in battle, brimming with berserker bloodlust.

My actions run on autopilot honed through years of training.

One of the men drags himself to his feet and throws a weak-as-fuck punch at my stomach. I intercept him with a massive right hook to the jaw, dislocating it as he stumbles back and crashes into the wall.

And then I find myself on the other side of the hallway, a few feet between me and Aaron.

The men behind me are groaning as they struggle to deal with their injuries.

Aaron raises his gun at me, his hand shaking.

I only have a moment before the men behind me recover and put a bullet in my back.

Or, worse, charge into the ensuite and drag my woman out here.

I raise my gun in a whip-sharp motion and fire two shots into Aaron’s legs.

He gasps as his kneecaps explode in a smoking shower of blood.

I rush forward, ducking to the side, as Aaron fires blindly and falls back.

Leaping atop him, I crush my knee into his stomach, his eyes bulging and becoming watery with agony as I drive it deeper.

But I can’t savor the look of agony in his eyes, the flicker of realization as he comes to terms with the fact he lost.

Of course, he fucking lost.

There isn’t a man alive who could beat me when my woman’s life is at stake.

I grab him quickly, haul him to his feet, and spin him to use as a human shield. I press the barrel of my gun against the back of his head, holding it there as I peer around him, assessing the situation.

Seven men.

I recognize the two FBI guards.

One of them is the man I first struck, the one in the bulletproof vest.

Jerry’s face is a picture of blood, his blond hair has turned crimson as he struggles to rise to his feet.

The rest of the men aren’t in any better condition.

Some of them are taller than me, wider than me, more muscular than me…

But when I look closer I see signs of steroid use in their overinflated bodies, as though they’ve cheated their way to their physiques.

Two of the men are on their feet, their guns weakly raised, but their eyes are filled with prey-like fear as they gaze at me.

The rest lay in pained slumps on the floor, breathing raggedly.

“Their guns, Aaron,” I snarl. “Or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

“Do you really expect me to believe you’d do that?” Aaron cries, trying to act tough even as he lets out gasps of agony.

I answer him by firing another shot into his leg.

He wails and his body tries to slump, but I tighten my grip around his neck, holding him like the useless rag doll he is.

“Guns. Now.”

“Drop your weapons,” Aaron wails.

The men exchange looks, but then one by one they start dropping their weapons.

None of them can hide the fear and awe in their expressions, the disbelief that a single man has beaten them.

But they don’t understand what I have with Ruby.

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