Page 142 of Mile High Daddy

Lila winces, and my patience snaps. I lurch forward, but he sees it coming.

The gun whips across my jaw, snapping my head to the side. Pain flares, sharp and immediate, but I don’t go down.

Lila screams my name.

I blink through the ringing in my ears, my vision narrowing to one goal.

Kill him.

Evans shakes his head like I’m a damn disappointment. “You still don’t get it, do you? This was never about you.”

I flex my fingers, measuring the distance between us, searching for an opening.

He continues, his voice smooth, taunting. “You think I’d let my only leverage slip away?” He strokes Lila’s hair with his free hand. A mistake.

Her knee jerks up—slamming into his crotch.

He lets out a choked curse, his grip on her loosening for half a second.

That’s all I need.

I move, lunging forward, gripping his wrist before he can aim the gun again. The shot fires wide, the sound echoing through the warehouse. I twist his arm, wrenching it back until I hear the sharp pop of bone.

Evans howls, his body jerking in pain, but I don’t let go.

I slam my fist into his face—once, twice—until he staggers back, blood spilling from his nose. He tries to lunge for the gun, but I kick it across the floor. He stumbles, breathing hard, glaring at me through swelling eyes.

He’s still smiling.

“You think killing me changes anything?” he pants. “You’re already too late.”

He smirks at me, blood dripping from his split lip, and I press my gun harder against his skull. My finger tightens over the trigger.

“I should kill you for touching her.”

His lips twist into something close to amusement. “Then do it.”

I almost do.

But before I can pull the trigger?—

A gunshot cracks through the air.

A sharp pain explodes in my right hand, and my gun goes flying, clattering against the concrete. The force sends me staggering back, clutching my bleeding palm.

Fucking hell.

Another shot follows, barely missing my head. I drop low, rolling behind a stack of crates as more bullets rip through the air.

Lila screams.

I twist, eyes locking onto the shooter?—

A man I don’t recognize.

He’s tall, wiry, dressed in dark tactical gear, his gun still smoking. His stance is confident, precise, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. A trained killer.

His cold gaze lands on me.

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