Page 98 of Savage Beauty

He trains his gun on Max. All he has to do is squeeze his finger. He’ll hit Max straight in the chest. In his heart.

William turns his head to me while his gun remains trained on Max.

With a flick of my wrist, the blade spins through the air.

Bullseye.

Literally.

William’s body shifts. And then tumbles to the ground.

“Christ!” Max shouts.

My fingers wrap around another blade. It’s automatic. Throw one. Grab the next. No time to spare in case of a miss. Sam trained me.

Max is before me, holding my shoulders. His hand goes to my cheek then lifts my chin. “Sloane, are you okay?”

His bright blue eyes question. His pupils are so tiny in the bright sunlight.

“He would’ve hurt you.” My lips curl, and I instinctively inhale to hold back the tidal wave of peptide hormones. “I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

CHAPTER31

Max

Using my body as a shield, I both protect Sloane from the man on the ground and from her seeing the destruction sown by her blade.

The silver blade sticks out from the eye socket where the tango took a direct hit to the left eye. The blade has to be inches inside the cranium.

His hand rises from the ground. He’s conscious, and it looks like he might attempt to move the knife.

The handgun lies inches from his side.

I kick it away, choosing to ensure my fingerprints aren’t on it.

The guy on the ground appears dazed. He’s most likely in shock. Suffering from a brain injury. Hemorrhaging, perhaps.

I pull out my phone and dial emergency services.

The man on the ground’s uninjured eyelid closes and his head lolls to the side.

“Who is he?” I ask as the phone rings.

“He would’ve shot you. I couldn’t let him.” Sloane’s voice is shaky. She looks fucking petrified, but if she’d given me five more seconds, I would’ve taken the guy out.

I press my finger to his neck. His pulse is plenty strong. There’s little blood stemming from the eye socket, which says to me he’s most likely hemorrhaging internally. Judging from the placement of the handle, my guess is the blade extends four inches into his brain matter. It’s fascinating he didn’t die instantly.

“Where’d you learn to throw knives?”

“Sam. I don’t like guns. He said I had to learn self-defense.”

Throwing knives is one helluva self-defense. “In your apartment. That enormous block of wood. It wasn’t art, was it? You use that to practice.”

“Knife throwing relaxes me.”

Off in the distance, sirens wail.

“Guns are loud. I don’t like them.”

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