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He hooked his father’s arm and pulled, and the gunshot meant for my head went wide, hitting the cement floor next to me and making sharp particles of concrete fly like shrapnel.
I screamed, the sound wheezy and ragged, as the slivers dug into my skin.
Cole and his dad grappled for control of the gun, and when the black-haired boy shoved the older man hard with his shoulder, they both went down. The gun flew out of their grasp, skittering across the hard floor with a metallic sound.
Get it. Get it!
I hauled myself up to my hands and knees, but before I could even try to stand, rough hands were grabbing me around the waist, pulling me back. I yelled again, driving my elbow backward as hard as I could. The man behind me dropped me, and I collapsed to the floor again. I could feel blood coating my lips; I practically choked on it as I gasped for breath.
A hand closed around my ankle again, but before the man behind me could drag me away, three more figures appeared in the doorway.
“What the fuck?”
Mason’s voice was soft and low, barely audible over the sound of Cole and Mr. Mercer’s grunts and yells.
A dozen different emotions filtered across his face in a split second as he took in the scene before him—but the one that rose most strongly to the surface was one that didn’t surprise me at all.
Betrayal.
The three boys darted forward, barreling past me as they charged toward Mason and Elijah’s fathers. Cole and his dad were crashing around the room, and I realized with a sick twist of my stomach that this was what it would’ve looked like if Cole had ever fought back when his dad hit him before.
It was awful and horrifying.
They were evenly matched, like I’d always thought they would be, but that just meant they both delivered their punches like swings of a baseball bat—hard and heavy, nothing held back. Cole’s face was bloody, the first time I’d ever seen that happen in a fight, and his features were set in an almost psychotically blank mask as he launched another flurry of punches at his dad.
The other three Princes were grappling with the two older men as shouts and yells echoed in the large space.
I pressed to stand, but I couldn’t put weight on my right foot without dizzying pain, so I dropped back down again, crawling toward Cole and Mr. Mercer.
He needs help. He needs hel—
Before I could reach them, Cole’s father shoved the broad-shouldered boy hard, making him stagger backward. As Cole regained his balance and moved to charge forward again, Mr. Mercer ducked down and picked up a six inch long piece of metal with a sharp, jagged edge—a remnant of whatever had been stored in the warehouse at some point.
Before his son could reach him, the older man lashed out in a wild, arcing slash. It caught Cole across the chest and stomach, and he lurched to a stop, a stunned expression cracking the impassivity of his face. His t-shirt was a dark blue, but I could see lightly tanned skin, dark ink, and shiny red blood through the gash that opened in the fabric.
He froze, swallowing hard as he put a hand to his chest.
In the space of time it took for him to do that, his father backed up several steps, holding the metal blade out threateningly.
The movement behind me, the shouts and yells, had ceased. The boys had either restrained their fathers or lost that fight, but I couldn’t look to find out.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight before me.
“Back off!” Mr. Mercer shouted, his voice made ragged by anger and desperation. “Back. The Fuck. Off!”
Cole’s shirt was soaked with blood. I could see it wetting the fabric, making it cling to his broad frame. His fingertips were stained with it, and when he curled his hand into a fist, it smeared over his palm.
But he wouldn’t back off.
I could see it in his eyes.
He would never, ever stop.
And his father would kill him if he had to, in order to keep his secret.
Cole’s chest rose and fell, and I could see his muscles bunching, see him puffing up with rage. He would run headlong into that blade if it gave him one more chance to stop his father.
Don’t, Cole. Please, goddammit, don’t!
