Page 81 of Protector

“Cobra…” Manny struggled against the ropes, fighting to take a breath. “He wants her…”

“Who does he want?” she asked without hesitation.

“Y-you. He wants you. I… was supposed to wait. Girls… off-limits.”

The fuck?

Her eyebrows moved up toward her hair as she turned to glance at me as if ensuring she wasn’t the only one hearing his words. “It wasn’t their idea to use my daughter as bait?”

Manny’s tongue darted out before he admitted, “No.”

That was why they hadn’t come looking for him. He’d defied Cobra’s orders and was a walking dead man by the time we found him at the motel.

Without another word, Celia thrust the blade just under Manny’s right ear with a cry of rage and punched it forward, ripping his throat wide open and sending a spray of blood into the air.

There was no gurgle or cry of surprise, he was dead before her arm came down. Instead of stepping away from the blood, she leaned into it, jabbing the tip of the knife into his chest and dragging it toward his navel with a roar.

Again, and again, the blade connected with his neck and chest until his head fell awkwardly to the side, almost completely severed.

“Celia,” I said quietly. “It’s over.”

She shook her head and drove the knife into his belly again. “No, I can do it. I can kill him.”

“Darlin’,” I moved closer, keeping my palms up. “He’s dead.”

Her lips turned up into a defiant expression. “Not to me.”

I’d felt something similar when I sent Donald to the Reaper. It didn’t matter how many people I put down; death had never given me the closure I sought.

“He ain’t comin’ back. Give me the knife.” Her grip tightened around the handle, and I sighed, “Celia, you said you’d trust me. Tell me who’s in control?”

“Me.” Her shoulders slumped forward, and she released the knife into my waiting palm before dropping to her knees and vomiting.

I ran my knuckles up and down between her shoulder blades until her retching turned to dry heaves. She ran the arm of her sweatshirt over her mouth before rocking back onto her heels. “Let me guess,” she muttered. “You’ve probably never thrown up after a kill.”

My lips curved up into a smirk. “You guessed right. How do you feel?”

She took my hand and let me pull her back onto her feet before looking up at me with the stubborn expression I’d come to know and love.

My bloodstained goddess.

“I want to kill him over and over until it takes away the memories of what he did to me.”

I nodded and led her out of the room. “Ain’t no kill in the world that can erase that. There are times when I close my eyes and I swear I can still feel my old man’s fists on my ribs; can even smell the stench of liquor on his breath.”

“What do you do?” Her hand curled around mine.

“I fight it; remind myself that he’s gone. Now…” I turned to her once we reached the hallway. “You did good in there, but you and I both know that he wasn’t any real threat. The next time might not be as easy, but you gotta be willin’ to put him down just the same.”

With a sigh, I added, “And if I’m tellin’ you to do somethin’, fuckin’ listen. You can’t act in rage. That’s a damn good way to get yourself hurt or killed. I showed you exactly how to handle the knife, but you let your emotions cloud your judgment, and it showed.”

Celia’s lips mashed together for a brief second before she responded. “I was listening to you. I did exactly what you said—”

My frustration increased. “You’re just lucky you killed him with your first strike. This ain’t fuckin’ karate where you can tap out or whatever it is they let you do. You fuck up like you did back there and it’ll be like the motel all over again, but next time, I might not be there to save you! Are we clear?”

Where I’d expected an argument or at the very least, an outburst, she remained quiet; watching me through narrowed eyes.

“Celia,” I pushed, needing her compliance.

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