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The tackle comes without surprise. Martin dives for my stomach to throw me off my feet, but I see it coming from a mile away in the hatred glinting in his eyes.
Which is exactly what I want. A man who acts in his fury is a man who doesn’t think his moves through.
I grab him around his back when he lunges for my middle, and we roll onto the floor together, a tangle of flying fists and scything elbows. Images of Willow come to mind, and the thought of him near her—let alone scaring her—spirals me into a mission to break his fucking jaw. Or arm.
Hell, when I’m done with him, it’ll be easier to count the bones Ididn’tbreak.
“You better hope you didn’t get her pregnant,” Martin wheezes as he tries to wrestle me into a headlock. “Or I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her and your bastard inside her.”
Now, I’m the one not thinking straight. I don’t even know where the image in my head comes from, but the thought of Clara pregnant with my child fills me with something I never thought I’d feel. Ever.
And he wants to take that away from me?
Fuck.
That.
I’m so blinded by the influx of anger that I don’t see him grab a stone vase from a nearby end table.
And I definitely don’t see him swing it at me.
It’s the sound of my ribs cracking that registers first. The pain shoots through me a second later.
He brings the vase down a second time on my head and I drop to the floor. Everything goes black, then fades back in, then fades back out again.
I’m not going down like this.
I’m not letting him win.
I’m not going to let him take Clara and Willow and…fuck. I can’t keep my eyes open.
By sheer force of will, I manage to roll onto my back out of the way from one of his kicks. It throws him off-balance, but he only chuckles and regards me from where he stands.
“Tough luck, Zakrevsky.” Martin wipes his mouth and sniffs. “I’ll tell Clara you said hi.”
He moves to step over me.
Big mistake.
It’s all I need to grab his ankle, twist his leg into my arms, and yank him to the ground with every ounce of strength I can muster. The sound of his head cracking on the carpet isbeautiful; the fact that he goes limp almost instantly is a huge relief.
I pull myself to my feet and he groans. In one sense, it’s a pity he’s not dead yet. In another, it means I get to dothis.
I kick him a few times just to make us even. Pain shoots through my side when I do, but it’s nothing compared to the pure rage and adrenaline pumping through my veins.
“Arrest me now, motherfucker.”
I give him one more wingtip to the solar plexus. Then I grab my suit jacket and stumble off to find Clara. She’s got to be around here, somewhere, and I need to find her before anyone else does.
BeforeRaizodoes.
I stumble into one of the men’s restrooms to splash cold water on my face and clean up a bit. I need the shock to clear my head—as much as I hate to admit it, Martin clocked me good. For all I know, I walked right past Clara in this fucking daze.
“He didn’t shoot Michael Little. Did he?
I freeze. It’s faint, but I hear it. Clara’s voice.
“Not intentionally.”
