Page 56 of Hate Mates

“I’m whoever I need to be,” I purr and then send the knife sailing through the air to embed in the man’s heart. Jensen drops the gun before he, too, falls to the ground. Only, I can’t get to either weapon before Maclain pounces on me, knocking me back to the ground. The landing knocks my breath out of me, leaving me gasping as I fight to keep his hands from circling my throat.

Hitting him in the face doesn’t accomplish much more than to enrage him further. He’s probably doped the fuck up and running on a pure adrenaline high. His fingers tighten but I don’t let up punching him over and over. My stilettos don’t allow me the best leverage to dig my heels into the floor. I kick one off and as I’m working the other one off, a soft, mechanical hiss rings through the room and blood splatters over me.

Lyle Maclain drops like an anvil atop me.

Spitting out blood, I groan with distaste. Andrew hovers above me, pushing the dead weight off me with his foot.

“That was my kill.”

“You have no idea how wrong you are, sweetheart,” he replies, helping me to stand. Andrew’s eyes harden when he scans me, but he blinks it away swiftly. Removing his shirt, he hands it to me. Once I’ve donned it and covered myself back up, he hands me a gun. I don’t know where he got it, but I take it before retrieving my knife from Jensen. “The mirror.”

Andrew moves to a floor-length mirror, finds a latch on the side that reveals a hidden corridor.

“Aren’t you full of tricks,” I say, stepping through. “Maybe next time you could kick the prick off me, before blowing a hole in his head.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he says, taking down a guard in the hallway with a single shot.

“Oh honey, I’d never beg you for anything.” The next man is mine to take down, and since we’re in a bit of rush, I use the gun Andrew gave me.

“We’ll see about that,” he mutters. We get to a door, and he cautiously opens it, scanning the surroundings. “Clear. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Nobody follows us, no crowd of men running to avenge their bossman. Maybe we vanquished them all on the way out. Maybe they’re all too inebriated. Maybe they don’t give a shit that the man who pays them is dead. I couldn’t care, I’m just grateful to be out of that house.

Francis waits at the car for us, gun out.

“The women are safe inside,” he tells Andrew, then moves to the front seat.

“Women?” I ask, getting into the backseat. He doesn’t have to answer, though. The three of them sit huddled together in the seat opposite. They’re too thin, I notice immediately, as they stare at me wide-eyed. “Hi.”

“Is he dead?” one of them asks, her accent thick.

“Yes,” I answer.

“The other girls…” another woman starts.

“Francis has called in the authorities,” Andrew tells them, and I turn to him. This isn’t information I was privy to. The women sag in relief, tears of… I don’t know, perhaps disbelief, spring in all their eyes.

Andrew kicks my duffel bag toward me.

Shit, yeah.

I open it, digging through to find my wet wipes. We all have our tool bag. Mine is always packed with items for blood removal. It’s a problem with knives, you have to get up close and personal. There’s a spare outfit, too, thankfully. While I clean up, I try to get a grip on what’s going on.

“These are the three Maclain had for you?”

“Yes,” Andrew answers, looking from them to me. His hand jerks out to hold my chin to the side. His voice is deep, tinged with something dangerous. “Did he hit you?”

“He got one in, it’s nothing,” I dismiss, but he doesn’t look away. His fingers drag down my bruised cheek to what I’m sure is handprints around my neck. His touch is gentle, his jaw is not. Andrew is tense, coiled tight like a snake ready to pounce.

“He likes to hit,” one of the women says, the blonde one who seems a little more held together than the other two.

“Not anymore,” I tell her with a wink. “What’s your name?”

“Irena.”

“How long were you there?”

“Weeks, I think. It’s hard to keep track. I think it’s been almost a year in total.”

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