Page 82 of Texting My Valentine

I stumble. Damien laughs and guides me to the couch, pushing me down.

“You’re going to watch us make sweet, sweet love, Monica,” Damien growls as I try to claw onto consciousness. “I want you to think of my father every single fucking second. I want you to think of what you did to him, what you did tome. I want you to remember. This is all your fault.”

I open my mouth to scream, but no noise comes out.

Then everything goes black.

CHAPTER 28

ALEX

Istalk toward the beach house, my heart pounding, my instincts ready for war.

I should never have agreed to this. What if he’s hurt her already? I’ll never forgive myself for putting my woman in harm’s way. Tori’s too damn stubborn and fierce for her own good. I walk onto the back porch, ducking under a window and moving to the glass sliding doors.

The curtains are drawn, but there’s a crack through which I can just about make out Monica tied to a chair, the edge of the couch—and my woman’s legs jostling around. Fucking hell. Is he going to…

I can’t even think of it.

I need to slow down and formulate a plan.

That all goes out the window when I hammer my fist into the door. The glass shatters into pieces, cutting into my hands. I leap into the house, letting out a roar when I see what the bastard is going to do.

He must’ve drugged Tori. She lies on the couch, her eyes closed. The prick has already taken off her shoes and socks.

He spins to me, picking up the gun from the coffee table and aiming wildly. I bellow, throwing myself at him. The gunshot is so loud my eardrums start ringing.

Fire pulses in my arm as the bullet grazes me, but I don’t stop. He fires again, missing this time, and then I’m on him.

He roars when I grab his wrist, wrenching it vigorously, twisting his one remaining good hand. I grip his shoulders and turn, throwing him across the room. He crashes through the coffee table.

I leap on him, seeing red, bringing my fist down in a blow that might’ve killed him if the rat didn’t quickly roll to the side. He takes a blade from his boot, whining in agony as he forces his shattered wrist to function just enough for him to aim the knife at me.

He stabs me through the calf, causing me to stumble, and then scrambles to his feet, scuttling toward the door. I ignore the pain in my leg and my arm and chase after him.

There’s no damn way I’m letting him go after the shit he just pulled.

He runs down the beach, but I move faster. I don’t care about the blood soaking my sweatpants, making them stick to my legs. He was going to hurt my woman. I can’t even think of it. He was going to take something from her. He has no right.

When he realizes I’m catching up, he turns, holding the knife out.

“I’ll slit your throat, you fuck,” he roars. “Back off.”

“If you drop the knife, I might let you live,” I growl. “But if you go for me again after everything you’ve done, it’s over for you.”

“I should’ve gutted that little shit instead of playing a prank,” he snaps. “And I should’ve stabbed that fat bitch the second she walked through the door!”

Hot rage blurs my vision. So he tampered with Elliot’s bike. And he just called my woman the F word. That’s unacceptable.

I jump on him. He screams like a scared little girl and thrusts the knife at me. It punctures my shoulder and stays there, embedded in my arm. I don’t even feel the pain with the adrenaline pumping through me, though I’m sure I’ll be feeling it tomorrow. I grab his arm, spin him around, tossing him to the ground again.

This man just doesn’t know when to quit. He tries to crawl away from me, but I don’t give him a chance, bringing my foot down between his shoulder blades. I feel his weak body buckle. I pull the knife from my shoulder and lean down, bringing it to his throat.

I’m ready to kill him, to drench the sand with his blood, ready to end his mongrel life for daring to hurt my woman or nephew.

“Please,” he begs. “Puh-please.”

“It’s too late for that?—”

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