Page 78 of His Pretty Little Queen

Xander suddenly drops his head back into Crow's face, provoking a grunt from him. Quickly, he twists to grip his shirt, whirls around using the thick dazed biker as a shield, and ducks behind it just as Dustin's gun goes off.

A bullet meant for Xander appears like a red portal in the centre of the Sergeant of Arm's cheek.

Chaos breaks loose.

Rounds suddenly echo through the hot, coasting fog. The thick smoke lights up with small flares from the firing weapons ahead.

Dustin growls, turning his gun towards us, firing through the haze. Shooting at everything. Anything.Anyone.

Only ten or so metres away, Max shields Fawn. Suddenly, his arm jolts backwards as he takes a bullet for her. It must have hit his bone, or it would have broken through his flesh and landed in her face.

He grunts and cups his shoulder as blood spills through the webbing between his fingers.

Fuck!

"Max!" I roar, rushing to them. Reaching for my little deer, I grip her close, drop with her to ashy debris, and cover her body while unseen bullets soar around us.

"Max? Talk to me," I call out, unable to see him while I guard her beneath me.

Fawn whimpers within my hold. The sound of ammunition hitting the dirt around us forces high-pitched yelps of terror from her. She covers her ears.

I lift my head to assess Max's condition, but he's crawling along the dirt towards Xander, moving with strength, unaffected by the wound. That's my brother.

Xander meets him on the ground, and for a second, they embrace, and I smile with relief.

Then I hear Bronson's laughter ring from somewhere inside the circling black mist, a manic sound that follows a gurgling howl, then a roar of hysterics.

"Seven lil' bikers all in a row, seven bikers in a row, " he sings, and I catch a blur of his silhouette and another's dashing around behind the headlights across from me. "Take one down, what do you have"—A man groans—"Sixlil' bikers all in a row."

Max is on his feet now, charging straight towards an oncoming bike. He throws himself at the rider, slamming the body to the dusty ground. Soot and debris rise around them. The two wrestling figures are swallowed by smoke. The smacks of skin to skin follow them.

Assessing the immediate area, the unknown location of Dustin unnerving me, I pull Fawn with me as I crawl over the ashy dirt on my elbows towards the Chrysler.

I hide her behind the tyre, cup her cheeks soaked in tears and soot, and kiss her lips. Feeling too much.Damn her.I love her too much. Then I rip open my suit shirt, tug the bulletproof vest from my body, and fasten it around her.

She clutches at my shirt. "I'm sorry. I'mso, sosorry."

I punch kisses over her face. Anger towards her surfaces. Now she is safe. Now she is in my arms. My hands twitch. "Don't ever do that again, little deer. Don't ever defy me—betray me again!”

My choice of word throws her—betray—her breath catching on it. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't let you choose me."

"Dammit! I willalwayschoose you!"

Her small fists shake, still curled around the fabric at my chest. "Maybe I can talk to him." She wheezes, and the wordbetrayaltakes on new meanings as her concerns shines in tears. No. She’s just desperate. Confused. She knows this has to happen. "Yes. Yes. Maybe he will stop this. I can convince him I'm worth knowing and that we are in love and—"

Fuck.You’re worth knowing, sweet girl. He’s not!

But I don't have time to coddle her as the war continues around us. Shaking my head, I say, "He shot at you, sweet girl. He shot at you."

Her lips wobble, and I curse, ever fuelled by the need to make him pay.Goddamn it.I don't have time for more sentiment, so I drag myself from the sweet, little hands desperate to keep me close.

"No," she cries as I head back into the open. And it dawns on me that it may not be my safety or her own that causes her to suffer through that cry. Perhaps it is for her father. That the reality of him, his existence, and the slight similarity in the shape of his eyes may have altered the idea of him for her—he's real now.

Fucker.Drawing my Glock, I find purchase behind a blackened trunk before moving to another.

I hear Bronson sing again. "Take one down, what do you have”—another groan echoes—“fivelil' bikers all in a row."

Upon me, a biker appears through the grey clouds and throws a fist into my face. I hiss on contact, dropping my gun. I curse.

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