Page 2 of Destructive Truths

The sunlight streaming through the window hits his face, highlighting the shades of black, purple, yellow, and blue bruising around his nose, jaw, and eyes.

“Take a good fucking look. These bruises are your fault, and now you will pay for every hit Rohan inflicted on me.” His tongue trails across his lower lip, licking the deep swollen cut that’s still coated in dried blood. “Only this time, my cunt of a brother won’t be saving you.”

His grip on my wrists tightens, and he grinds his sordid dick against my exposed pussy. Vomit whirls up my oesophagus, but I force the acid to stay down and think back to the day at the gym.

I spit in his face. “A queen knows how to save herself.”

I can do this. Liam taught me how to escape this exact hold. Think, Saoirse. Think.

I shimmy slightly, easing my body up the bed, and position my arms at a ninety-degree angle.

“Stop fucking wiggling.” Donnacha applies more pressure, but I don’t let him deter me. I shift my hips upward, thrusting until his body bucks, and he loses his balance. Quickly, I draw my head to the left as Donnacha tumbles forward, releasing his hold on my arms to catch himself before faceplanting into the headboard. Without hesitation, I bring my arms to my sides before wrapping them around his torso. He tries to wriggle from my grasp, but I cling to him as I manoeuvre my arm through his and use all my body weight against his elbow. With my right arm, I flip him onto his back. It happens so fast that it catches him off guard when I smash my forehead against his nose before jumping off the bed to grab the gun.

Aiming it directly at him, I watch as blood rushes from his nostrils as he hauls himself off the bed. Raising his arm to his face, he wipes the steady drip with the back of his hand. “Bad move, sweetheart,” he sneers as he stalks toward me.

My arms shudder, fighting to hold the gun steady. “Come any closer, and I’ll shoot your fucking dick off.”

A laugh barks past his lips. “I highly doubt it. Your hands are shaking.” He steps forward with slow, precise steps, almost like he’s a lion and I am his prey. “Have you ever shot someone?”

I don’t reply.

“Thought so.”

“I mean it! Don’t come closer.” I make a show of clicking the safety off, even though every inch of me vibrates with fear, adrenaline, and shock. This sick bastard won’t win. Racking my brain, I try to remember what Rohan whispered in my ear as we stood together in the hallway. I replay his lesson in my mind—him behind me, his breath dancing across my neck.

Wrap your hands around the grip. Your hold should be high and tight. No space between your flesh and the gun. Line up your sights. Don’t pull the trigger until both sights align.

Donnacha takes another step. My time is running out.

Now, shoot.

I pull the fucking trigger.

TWO

SAOIRSE

A rapid pulse thunders in my eardrum as the trigger depresses back against the flesh between my thumb and pointer finger. My heart freezes mid-beat as the whip of the bullet propels from the chamber, flooding the air with an unmistakable crack.

Donnacha’s eyes widen, broadcasting his surprise, but it’s too late for him to stop the inevitable. The wayward bullet whips through the space between us. It grazes the inside of his upper thigh, breaking his steady stance as it tears through his dark denim jeans, narrowly missing his dick.

A rush of adrenaline courses through me, kick-starting my heart until all I can hear is the erratic drumming against my chest. Realisation settles in, rounding my eyes with disbelief.

Oh. My. Fuck. I just shot someone.

My feet remain frozen to the floor as Donnacha’s face contorts. Undiluted pain creeps across his brow line, tightening the creases around his eyes. A muffled curse slips past his clenched teeth, and he bends at the waist. “Motherfuckin’ bitch.” His hand clasps over his flesh wound. There is no mistaking the fury radiating off him. He’s a wounded beast, and I antagonised him.

Wild flames narrow his angry eyes, promising penance for the sin I committed. Fearful of the repercussions, it takes everything in me to maintain eye contact and keep my chin raised. Even though I’m as naked as the day I was born—entirely vulnerable—I restrain the shaky tremors beneath my skin and keep my confident demeanour in place.

The Killybegs Syndicate is determined to destroy every shred of me. It’s time to step into the role I was born to fill and show them I’m not easily broken.

Fake it until you make it, right?

I suck in a breath, squaring my shoulders with an edge of defiance. Donnacha staggers forward, dragging his right leg with him. “You’ve done it now, sweetheart. Bad, bad, move.”

I hide my fear behind a raised brow and pull my lips into a smug smile. “Touch me again, and I promise you, the next round I fire”—my eyes drop to my attacker’s crotch before slowly sliding back up his torso and meeting his murderous stare—“I won’t miss.”

With one last furious glance, he rushes me, his eyes trained on the gun clutched tightly in my grip. He grasps my wrist, and we each struggle for dominance. Using his injuries to my advantage, I raise my knee and connect it to his bruised ribs. With a grunt, he pushes against me, and I lose my balance. Suddenly, I’m falling backwards, and my back meets the floor with a bone-shaking crunch. The gun goes off again, and the bullet ripples through the air until it lodges in the wall behind him.

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