Page 73 of Pack Obsession

Pure instinct takes over. I drop and roll as metal whistles through the air where my head was a split second ago. The pipe catches my forearm as I bring it up to block a second swing, the impact jarring through bone. I wince from the sharp pain rattling up my arm, cursing under my breath as the force knocks my gun hand against the wall. My fingers spasm open, and my weapon skitters across the floor, disappearing down the hall.

Fuck!

Two men loom over me now. One still gripping that metal pipe, the other reaching for his holstered gun. Immediately, I pull my blade from my boot as I spring up into a fighter’s crouch.

Pipe-guy slashes wide. Amateur move. I step inside his guard and ram my knee into his solar plexus. As he doubles over, I drive my blade up under his ribs. He groans, gargling blood in moments. The second man has his gun halfway clear when I use his dying friend as a shield, pushing the body into him. They both go down. I stomp on his wrist, feeling bones crack. My knife strikes him in head.

“Sorry, boys,” I whisper, dragging them through the nearest door. It’s some kind of storage room. “Nothing personal.”

I retrieve my gun, my pulse still racing from the fight. The hallway curves again and there—a guard outside a closed door. Crew haircut. Spiral tattoo on his neck.

I draw back around the corner, breath coming hard and fast.Want to bet my Omega’s behind that door?

Time to end this.

I ease my head around the corner. The guard stands at the end of the hallway, his back to me, that distinctive spiral tattoo visible on his neck. Sunlight streams through a broken window, casting harsh shadows on the peeling wallpaper. There’s eight feet between us.

No time for stealth now. I launch forward, keeping my footfalls silent despite my speed. Just as I’m about to reachhim, he starts to turn—maybe hearing something, maybe just instinct. His eyes widen as he spots me, his hand already moving toward his holster.

I lunge at him, and before he can fully draw his weapon, I slam into him like a freight train. The impact drives us both into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. His gun clatters to the floor, sliding away into shadows. He’s strong, though. He throws a wild elbow that catches my temple. Stars explode behind my eyes, and the copper taste of blood fills my mouth.

“Dean?” a muffled male voice calls from inside the room. “All good out there?”

My hand clamps over the guard’s mouth before he can respond. “Yeah, just tripped,” I call back, speaking lightly and gravelly, having no idea if he bought it. My heart pounds; won’t fool them for long.

Dean, apparently, uses my split focus to drive his elbow back into my ribs. Pain explodes through my side, but I’ve got four inches and thirty pounds on him, plus the kind of rage that makes pain irrelevant.

I lock my arm around his throat, feeling his pulse hammer against my forearm. He throws his weight backward, trying to use the wall to crush me between him and the plaster. My grip slips for a fraction of a second. It’s enough for him to get his fingers between my arm and his windpipe, trying to create space to breathe.

“Not happening,” I growl, readjusting my hold. He bucks and twists like a wild animal, fingernails leaving bloody furrows down my arm. I can feel the desperation in his struggles—he knows what’s coming. I tighten my grip, pressing my forehead against the back of his head to limit his movement.

His struggles get weaker and more uncoordinated. Then he goes limp. I hold the choke for another few seconds to be sure before lowering him to the floor.

A muffled sob comes through the door, so soft I almost miss it.

Casey! Trapped in there, afraid, hurting.

Something splinters in my chest. The rage that floods me is arctic cold, focused to a laser point.

Gun raised, I kick the door hard enough to break the frame. The room beyond is barely furnished—a leather couch, a folding chair, a single lamp casting sickly yellow light. Another guard spins toward me, standing too close to where Casey’s curled into herself on the couch. Her face is tear-streaked, with dark circles under her eyes, but she’s alive. Thank fuck, she’s alive.

The guard’s hand moves toward the gun at his hip. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

I snarl, my throwing knife already leaving my fingers. Logan’s voice echoes in my memory from countless training sessions—blade orientation doesn’t matter for penetration; speed and point of impact do. The knife takes him directly between the eyes with a thunk. His mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ of surprise before he topples backward.

Casey’s off the couch before his body hits the ground, launching herself at me with a cry that’s half sob, half my name. I catch her, crushing her against my chest. She feels so small, so fragile, as tremors wrack her frame. The scent of her—peaches and spring rain underneath the fear-sweat and tears—has my chest hurting.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur into her hair, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other keeps my gun ready. “I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe now. I’m here.”

“I was so scared,” she chokes out against my chest. Her fingers clutch my tactical vest like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. “I thought... I thought you’d never...” Then she tucks her face in my neck, and I want to keep her there forever in my arms. Sweet, adorable, loving.

“Nash bugged your clothes with trackers,” I tell her.

She pulls back to stare at me, still wrapped around me. A watery laugh bubbles up, though she doesn’t loosen her grip.

“Of course he did. That paranoid, obsessive bastard. I should be pissed about him going all Big Brother on me, but right now, he’s my hero. You all are.”

When we break apart, I rest my forehead against hers.

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