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As we jerked around with a hiss of our skates, a throng of men stormed into the room with a thunder of stomping feet and a few warning shots from their guns. I snapped into a defensive stance instinctively, groping at my hip, but of course I didn’t have any weapons on me while we were training.
The torrent of attackers had already hit Rafael, a bunch of the men attempting to pin him to the ground while he thrashed against their hold. Niko scrambled backward, but a couple of the guys caught him too, one jamming a gun to his forehead. He froze.
The rest, a dozen or so of them, barged out into the rink. And right at the front of the pack stood Octavio, a wild light wavering in his eyes and his mouth twisted into a sneer.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I spat out, rage and terror colliding inside me. I wanted to bash open his ugly mug, but I didn’t have anything to do it with—or any way to protect the men on either side of me who weren’t armed or trained in fighting.
Octavio’s lips drew back to bare his teeth. “You don’t get to take off to play these stupid games and then prance home acting like you run the show.Iput in the time,I’vepaid with sweat and blood, and I’m taking back the respect Mireya owes me, which you never deserved anyway.”
Then he sprang at me, the rest of the men lunging forward at the same time.
“Get the fuck away from her!” Jasper bellowed, and Quentin let out a wordless snarl. They leapt to my defense as the onslaught of mutinous gangsters surged forward.
We had a slight advantage in that we were more at home on the ice. As a few of our attackers’ feet skidded on the slippery terrain, Jasper managed to land a powerful punch on one jerk’s skull. Quentin rammed his elbow into another goon’s side while the guy was in mid-trip.
One of the other thugs grabbed at me, and I whipped him around in a ghoulish version of one of our spins before kneeing him hard enough to send blood spurting from his nose. As it smeared across the frozen surface beneath our feet, two more men closed in around me.
Inspiration struck. I didn’t have any weapons I could hold in my hands… but I did have blades on my feet.
I swung around with a couple of swift kicks. The bottom of my skate slashed across one goon’s cheek, slitting it open all the way to the bone. As he stumbled backward with a groan of agony, I jabbed right through the fabric of the other guy’s shirt, sending blood spurting from a belly wound.
Grunts and thuds carried from either side of me, but I couldn’t spare a moment to check on my skating partners. More thugs loomed on me.
I threw my fists and elbows, aimed another cutting kick, and yanked up a knee that caught one asshole in the gut. My feet rasped over the ice, veering this way and that.
The goons slipped and collided with each other almost as much as they did with us, but there were too many of them. Someone punched my shoulder just as I swung my skate again, and I wobbled for balance.
A hand snatched at my ponytail and wrenched me backward, pulling my hair at the roots viciously enough to leave my entire scalp throbbing. Octavio’s face, ruddy with fury, appeared in my peripheral vision.
I lashed out at him with all I could, clocking him in the jaw and slashing at his calf with my skate blade. But then he slammed his fist into my side, right where my healing ribs were tender.
Pain exploded through my torso. I bent over, trying to shield myself, but he punched me again in the same spot, so hard that a spittle-filled gasp burst from my lips.
I doubled over, dizzy with agony, and Octavio kicked my legs out from under me. My ass hit the ice, sending another jolt of pain up my spine.
Octavio jerked on my hair to snap my head to the side. “I’m going to tell Mireya that the Hellborn tracked you down for revenge. She’ll believe me, and then you won’t matter at all.”
He shoved me toward the ice with enough force that my temple glanced off the frigid surface. An ache splintered through my skull; my ribs were still on fire.
I manage to heave myself around in time to see Octavio raising his gun, aiming it at my head while his teeth flashed in an unnerving grin. “Good-bye for good, pequeña rosa.”
His finger closed around the trigger. My sight swam as I screamed inwardly at my body to move.
A figure flung itself into view from the edge of my sight just as the bang of the gunshot tore through the air.
No new pain blazed through my existing aches. No bullet blasted through my skull.
Because Octavio was down. It was Quentin I’d seen charging at him—Quentin grappling with him on the ice before my hazy eyes.
Gritting my teeth, I shoved myself toward them, scrambling partway onto my feet. The two men twisted on the frozen turf, fists and knees jabbing at each other.
Just as I reached them, Quentin smacked Octavio’s arm into the ice at an unnatural angle, and Octavio’s fingers flinched open around the gun. I dove down to snatch at it, still fighting my dizziness.
My hand closed around the metal grip. I whipped it up, fit my finger around the trigger the way I’d practiced so many times, and rammed the muzzle against Octavio’s forehead.
No final snarky remarks. I fired without giving him an instant to recover.
Octavio’s head snapped backward. Blood gushed from the hole just above his brow. His body sagged onto the rink, his eyes rolling upward as if looking at the wound that had ended his life.
