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Fear clashed head-on with pain as he realized Connie was no longer standing on the stairs. Had she run upstairs, managed to lock herself into the bathroom before the fucker who shot him caught up to her? He couldn't see any other blood than his own, which he hoped was a good sign.
Moving more slowly than he liked, Thane ground his teeth and forced himself to sit up, almost passing out when his shoulder throbbed, and his blood pressure tried to hit rock bottom. From there, he turned onto his knees, then pushed up onto his feet. Maybe he swayed like a sailor on a storm-battered ship, but he was standing. Right now, that was a fucking victory.
Something banged. Thudded heavily once, twice…three times. Thane cocked his head and hobbled in the direction of the sound, letting his ear lead him to the living room. He left bloodied handprints smeared over the archway separating the room from the hallway, using the wall to balance himself as his eyes relayed messages to his brain he couldn't quite understand.
Someone huddled in the middle of the living room floor, naked and marred by offensive red marks. Such beautiful skin should never wear the signs of violence. Thane couldn't see a face, but his blurry vision could make out long, tawny hair. He knew that hair, had wrapped it around his fist while he—
A snarl tore into his throat.
He blinked off the haze of disorientation and focused on the man looming over Connie with his back half-facing Thane. The spread of his trousers told Thane they were unfastened, and the slow movement of his forearm from the elbow down indicated the motherfucker was jerking himself off.
Rage was a furled blossom, slowly blooming inside Thane's chest until he thought his heart would burst with the pressure. Hands slick with his own blood, he fisted them as he limped toward Guthrie. He'd recognize his enemy from a mile away, in the dark, while running in the opposite direction.
The disgraced soldier had shorn his hair down to the scalp, and there was a tattoo on his skull, curving around the shell of his ear. He was leaner than he'd been the last time Thane had seen him, but Thane was willing to bet he was fitter than ever. There probably wasn't a great deal of stimulating activities in prison, but gym privileges and personal fitness never went amiss for a man who held physical prowess above all else. Especially when it could save his miserable life.
Guilt and horror gouged chunks from Thane's heart the closer he got to Connie. Through the red haze of his fury, he noted she was out cold, or she'd taken refuge deep in her subconscious. Good. Either way, it meant she wouldn't be a witness to a homicide. She wouldn't have that memory ingrained in her head.
As he cleared his throat, then smashed his fist into Guthrie's face with a nasty crack of cartilage and blood splatter, Thane was grateful for small miracles. Because by the time he was done with this piece of shit, there wouldn't be enough of him left to fill a trash can.
Guthrie covered his face with his hands, his eyes wide as he tried to stem the bleeding. His dick swung in the wind, fully erect. “I fucking shot you!”
Shutting down every sensation but the need to destroy his enemy, Thane stretched his right arm out until the joint popped. He swept his gaze over Connie, noticed a knife and the gun were on the floor beside her. “Maybe you should perfect the art of killing one person before you up the stakes, Mik.” He lashed out, slamming the heel of his hand into the asshole's sternum, propelling him back. “Stevens set me up and you fell for it like a bitch. You want to take me out, fucking do it, but don’t you ever touch my woman.”
“Stevens told me what you did,” Guthrie wheezed, gagging on his own blood. “Ratting me out, sending me down the goddamn river. I’ve wanted you dead for a long time, but the pretty cunt you've been servicing is fair game. You cost me everything, and if losing her rips your heart out, so much the better.”
So much hatred. Thane would have mulled that over once, dissected it, tried to find the origins so hatred could be set aside, and friendship placed in its stead. Not today. He lunged forward, feeling his knees quiver in protest. Slamming into Guthrie was akin to running headlong into a wall, but the pain didn't matter. It barely registered in the grand scheme of things, even as more blood pumped out of the wound to soak an already ruined shirt.
They went down, Thane's fist pummeling whatever he could reach. His vision swam dangerously as he shifted on top of Guthrie, raining punishing blows on the man's face and chest. Batting aside any and all attempts at defense, he was riding a strange high of bloodlust and sadism, pushing himself beyond his physical limits to watch crimson bloom over tanned skin and bruises shadow his enemy's flesh.
The punch to his injured shoulder rocked him back for a moment, and he threw his head to the sky to roar as though he was more animal than man. Right in that moment, with his knuckles ripped and dripping with blood, he couldn't say he wasn't. He was driven by the need to protect his female, and his Dom was determined to have vengeance—even if it meant committing murder.
Using his advantage, Thane battered the fucker with his right fist until he couldn't swing any more. Over and over, flesh striking flesh with the intent to damage. No one would mistake the sound as anything sexual—it was all power, all rage. The sound of a man being beaten half to death.
When his arm tired, Thane found he couldn't breathe. The inert form beneath him was bruised from pelvis to forehead, coughing up blood and wheezing. His cock had deflated, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of pain pumped into him in such a short period, but Thane wasn't done with him yet. He had to hurry, though. The rage and adrenaline were burning down to the last dregs, taking his energy with them.
“You don't want to kill me, Thane,” Guthrie slurred, apparently missing several teeth. The asshole turned his head and spat blood, laughing. “You were the softest one in the unit…” He spat again. “Best hands, best eyes, and soft as shit.”
“You’re dying here today,” Thane hissed through his teeth. “I didn’t even know you were dealing drugs, idiot. I didn’t know until this morning,” he sucked in a breath, found his chest was tight, “when Stevens told me. He wanted me to take you out to save his ass, and I refused.” His head swam, dangerously light. “Now I’ll oblige him, because you hurt my woman.”
“Blood loss is a bitch, Thane. I'm hurt, but I'm not bleeding out, not like you.” Guthrie lifted his hand and jabbed a finger into Thane's shoulder, barely missing the entry wound. He laughed again, flecks of red splattering over his lips and chin as Thane struggled not to scream. “Swaying like a little girl. White as a fucking snowflake. Two minutes, you'll be unconscious. I'll slit your throat and fuck that tight cunt while your girl cries over your dead body.”
Oh, he had to go and say that, didn't he? Thane pressed the heel of his hand against the wound, estimating it was about three inches below his collarbone. The bullet shouldn't have hit anything vital, but the asshole was right—he didn't have a great deal of time before his body called it a day. Guthrie couldn't be left unattended with Connie, not again. Jasper was coming, but Connie had to be protected at all costs.
Grunting under his breath, Thane shifted his weight and drove his knee into Guthrie's dick with all the force he could muster. When the bastard squawked and attempted to cup his crown jewels, Thane knelt on the flaccid organ with one knee, pushing all his strength into that point. If that knife was any closer, he would have gladly castrated the fucker and left him to bleed out.
The edges of his vision began to darken, and something strange prickled up his spine. Shoving away from his foe, Thane stumbled to his feet and staggered. Fuck, he was down to seconds. The pain was muted, barely a blip on his register. Leaving Guthrie gripping his cock in both hands, Thane managed to make his way unsteadily to Connie, collapsing onto his hands and knees beside her.
He didn't dare touch her. The bruises and swelling on her face suggested something might be broken. Concussion would be an issue, among other things, and all he wanted to do was scoop her up, tell her she would be okay. Look after her. No such luck existed, he thought as his vision switched off for a freakish second, then flickered back on.
“Sugar, if you can hear me…” He spoke slowly, feeling as though his tongue was too thick and numb to speak. “Help's coming. Jasper’s coming.” Everything felt so fucking heavy. He remembered the sensation, couldn't say he'd missed it. He tried to push up, but his hand slipped, jolting out in front of him.
Metal touched his fingertips.
Gun.
Thane picked it up, the weight of it almost too much for his arms to raise. How fucking demoralizing was that? So fucking weak he could hardly brace the handgun long enough to aim it at the man who'd brought terror and ruin to Thane's goddamn house. Smeared devastation over the walls, stained the floors with fear.
Guthrie said something, his voice high and desperate. He lifted his hands in surrender, his mouth moving, but Thane didn't hear words. He could barely hear the soft whoosh of blood in his ears, because there was none. The man with the muddy eyes and the shaved, tattooed scalp meant nothing.
