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Turn the key.
Let out a breath.
Could it be I was wrong and things will go our way? I ponder this, trying to catch my breath just as the doors rattle. I lean back against them.
She glances up the stairs, then grips my wrist, her eyes wide. “More people,” she mouths.
Fuck. Of course there are.
Pushing off the door, I motion for her to wait, and I start up the stairs. It’s as if the air is fresher here. Maybe it is. Hard to believe I’m finally out of the fucking basement.
Don’t think I’m going into a basement ever again. Not even if it saved the world.
I’m fucking serious.
The pain from my bruises fades in the rush of adrenaline. It makes my heart race, the blood in my veins sing. Bloodlust tints my vision red. Maybe I’ll go berserk like my Viking forefathers did in battle.
Who the fuck knows?
When the guy appears on the steps above me, I barrel into him. Kinda hard to do when you’re below someone, but I manage. I punch him, he tries to punch me back, and we topple down to the landing.
The air is knocked out of my lungs, and goddammit, my body aches in new and fascinating ways, but I manage to punch him again in the jaw, hard, laying him out cold.
I stare at him for a long moment, bent over, panting like a diesel engine running on fumes.
And then the other thug is on me. Scarface himself. He actually roars as he does so.
Maybe he has Viking ancestors, too, I think vaguely as we crash down the next flight of stairs.
Layla screams, and that distracts me briefly—long enough for Scarface to get a good punch into my solar plexus.
Ah fuck. I roll on my side, gasping, and he kicks me. He prepares to kick me again—but curses and twists.
Layla is beating her fists on his back and kicking at his legs.
Even curled up around the pain, I chuckle.
That’s my girl.
I roll to my knees, and then to my feet, and draw back my fist with all the pent-up fury I’ve been bottling inside these past few days. The first punch is spectacular, breaking his nose and blood spraying everywhere, then lay one after another on him, until he topples over, groaning.
Layla bends over and throws up.
Yeah. Not the kind of things I’d want my girl to be seeing, dammit. I wipe my bloody hands down my pants and grab her arm.
“Time to haul tail, babe. Come on.” I drag her up the stairs, making a beeline for the exit. “And then we can have that date we talked about.”
Chapter Twelve
Layla
We stumble out into the yard, blinking like a pair of owls. Immediately I pull Hawk to the side, against the wall, to check if anyone else is coming.
It’s another gray day, and a cold drizzle is falling. I draw the cool, clean air in my lungs gratefully, lick water off my lips, and listen.
It’s quiet.
Still.
