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I dropped to one knee, keeping my gun tight to my hip. Each attempt to breathe was met with fiery resistance, and tears welled in my eyes. I’d been in worse pain before, but it felt different now. The punch wasn’t as bad as being shot or run through with a sword—both things I’d experienced firsthand—but it was worse in its own way. The agony of the punch robbed me of my basic functions and practically crippled me.
No one single blow had made me feel so helpless before.
Holden was at my side, having made his way through the throng in short order. Using my elbow as leverage, he dragged me to my feet and stood between me and the flying punches and overwhelming testosterone. Catching my breath took longer than I wanted it to as I rubbed the red spot on my chest that felt hot to the touch.
“He barely got you,” Holden observed.
“I know. ”
His brows met in a disapproving V over the bridge of his nose. “There’s something wrong with you. ”
Just this morning I’d been on cloud nine, thinking about how right this whole situation was. Now that I’d literally been punched by the gruff reality of my life, I was grudgingly ready to admit maybe this was wrong. Because goddamn that fist had hurt.
“I can’t talk about it now. ”
“Fine. But does it keep you from knowing how to use that?” He pointed to my gun.
“No. ”
“Then use it. ” With his ominous instruction given, he melted back into the ruckus to help Desmond. Their unlikely alliance might have kept my attention at a different time, but he had yanked me back into my right mind. I had a gun, and there were enemies within firing distance begging to take home a souvenir of this fight.
They claimed they hadn’t come to kill me, so I would go against my better judgment and wouldn’t shoot to kill. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t fire off a few rounds to gravely injure. As long as I didn’t hit anyone on my side of the skirmish.
With my Spidey senses out of commission, I wasn’t sure I could properly assess where my boys would be at any given moment in the fight. Usually I could track someone and either aim to shoot them, or keep my bullets out of their way. Tonight I might as well have been shooting with a blindfold on and earplugs.
“Fuck it,” I grumbled. Raising my gun, which was already locked and loaded, I aimed at the nearest jostling kneecap and fired. A wolf screamed in agony, and I was grateful not to recognize the voice. When one of my mother’s pack crumpled to the ground, I was momentarily proud of myself for my good aim.
Pride faded quickly when I realized by taking down one of the men, I’d managed to draw all the attention of the fight back onto myself. Desmond launched himself at one of the men closest to him, while Holden struggled to fend off two at the same time. Just my luck too because Hank had gotten a second wind.
His face was mangled from where Desmond had thrown him against the pavement, but the injury had done nothing to deaden the hate in his eyes. If anything, being caked in dried blood with a good section of his cheek rubbed raw had fueled his rage towards me. His lip pulled back in a silent snarl as he edged closer, cracking his neck loudly when he tilted his head from side to side. I cringed at the sound of his popping joints. I’d hated the noise when I had superhuman hearing, and having average senses had done nothing to minimize my loathing for it.
If he cracked his knuckles next, I was going to shoot him in the head.
“You made a fool of me once, girlie. ”
I’d laid him flat on his ass with a savage right hook. If getting beaten up by a girl—even a girl who was a werewolf queen—was his way of measuring foolishness, then yes I certainly had made a fool out of him.
I had a different opinion about what made him look bad though. “Me? I think being a racist twat who thinks it’s still cool to wear wife-beaters is what makes you look stupid. ”
I didn’t need Desmond around to say it. The voice in the back of my head said, Oh my God, Secret… Shut up.
Maybe the voice had a point.
I took three steps backwards and staggered against the sidewalk but managed to keep my footing. He edged closer, and my common sense saw fit to remind me I had a perfectly good, almost fully loaded weapon in my hand.
Lifting the gun, I made my seriousness known by aiming it at his throat.
“I don’t care if you live or die,” I told him honestly. “But this doesn’t have to end with me killing you. Don’t come any closer. ”
Hank stopped walking but didn’t appear prepared to back down. Instead he regarded me with an unusual patience for a man who’d seemed ready to kill me a second earlier. I didn’t trust the sudden shift for one minute.
“I ain’t allowed to kill you,” he said.
“You wouldn’t have been able to anyway. ”
He sniffed and rubbed his nose on the heel of his palm. I made a mental note to avoid taking a hit from that hand. “You think you’re pretty tough. ”
I had once. Instead of voicing this, I shrugged.
