Page 175 of Ruthless Kings of Havoc

My hearing is next to return as my racing heartbeat is fighting to slow down.

“Pigtails! What the fuck?”

Who…

I feel utterly confused as the harsh annoyance in this person’s voice pisses me off. I want to reply but get assaulted with another round of coughs, to the point my back is being patted to assist. When I manage to breathe, I push away from the man holding me, glaring his way.

“What the hell do you want, Little Wimp?!”

I glare at him for five long seconds, watching the way he looks even more surprised now.

“Little Wimp?” He repeats the nickname, only for me to frown as I begin to realize who he is.

Wait, what?

“Marcus?” I breathe, then I’m frowning in confusion because who the fuck is ‘Little Wimp’? “Um… did I used to call you that?”

He doesn’t answer; instead, he lowers his gaze to my nose.

“Why the fuck are you lying down when your nose is bleeding like a fucking Nile?”

Oh.

Yeah…

Okay, that was stupid as fuck.

“I… um… couldn’t move,” I confess, quieter now.

Marcus frowns and slowly nods, his eyes immediately scanning the training room.

“Can you walk?”

I don’t want to say I can’t, but I’m frightened because my legs are still all numb-like.

“Got it,” Marcus concludes. “I’ll think of a plan. Just don’t lie down again.”

“Why are you here?” I don’t understand why he’s here.

“If you see someone dying, are you going to pretend they don’t exist?” he snaps back.

“But… you shouldn’t know I’m here.”It shouldn’t matter.“You hate me, remember?”

“Never fucking hated you,” he grumbles absentmindedly as he pulls out his phone. “If you remembered, it would save us all the agony.”

Remembered? Remember what?

“You… bullied me with Domino.”

He frowns at that but doesn’t comment on it.

I’m trying to piece together why I even think that when I could barely remember who this man was back then.Just the familiarity of his looks.The more I try to think about it, the harder it becomes.

“Don’t stress your pretty head into a seizure, Pigtails,” he complains and pulls me close to him. “I’m gonna lift you, princess-style. Okay with that?”

“Why do I feel like you’re not the type to ask for consent?” I mutter.

“Yes, I’m rough and direct in the bedroom, Prescott, but I don’t need to force myself on anyone. That’s Domino’s thing. Not mine,” he huffs absentmindedly because he’s scanning the room. “And if I don’t ask your lovely trio of psychos, they’re going to enjoy putting bullets in my head.”

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