Page 64 of Knot for Sale

My feet were still rooted to the ground, my eyes on the growing bloodstain blooming from Gabriel’s arm. He gritted his teeth and got his feet under himself again, clutching the wound with his other hand as he staggered upright.

A fifth goon strode toward us with a switchblade clutched in his hand, while a sixth charged after Elijah. Praying that omega sprinting speed would keep Elijah out of his grasp, I darted past Gabriel’s swaying form and threw myself onto my knees in the goon’s path.

“Don’t hurt him!” I begged, clasping my hands together in entreaty as I stared up at him with wide eyes.

The goon sneered down and spat something in Greek that didn’t sound complimentary. He stepped up to me and reached down with the hand that wasn’t holding the knife.

Using my clasped hands like a club, I swung them into his groin with all the strength I could muster. The man howled, doubling over, the knife tumbling from his fingers to clatter against the wooden boards of the dock. I lunged for it, ignoring the way my sore body screamed in protest at the sudden exertion.

I came up with the blade held securely in my grip and backed up until I was crouched protectively in front of Gabriel. His harsh, uneven breathing echoed in my ears. I wanted desperately to turn and look at him, but I didn’t dare. Instead, I darted my attention back and forth between the goon writhing on the ground in front of me, the knife fight raging by the farthest van, and the direction Elijah and his pursuer had disappeared.

Please let him be safe, I silently begged. Somehow, this must be my fault. No way could it have been a coincidence. If any of the others died because of my screwed-up family, I’d never forgive myself.

Shouts erupted from the direction of the boats moored down the dock from us, and I caught my breath as a small crowd of rough-looking men hurried in our direction, pointing and speaking rapidly in Greek. My shoulders sagged when I made out Elijah’s shock of russet hair at the front of the group.

There was no sign of the goon who’d chased after him. Maybe he’d made a run for it when he saw the crowd forming. The guy I’d punched in the groin certainly seemed highly motivated to leave, cursing sharply as he dragged himself to his feet and staggered toward the nearest van, still hunched over in pain.

He and one of the men who’d been fighting Onyx and Curran climbed into the vehicle and peeled away, scattering the crowd as the driver pulled a messy U-turn. Three of the goons lay unmoving on the pavement. Two of them were bleeding heavily. The other was the man who’d shot Gabriel and then been crushed by the van door.

“Drop the knife, Emma,” Gabriel grated from behind me. “It’s going to be hard enough to convince them who the bad guys are, as it is.”

I dropped the knife and stepped back, finally getting a good look at the blood pouring down Gabriel’s arm.

Curran and Onyx rushed over to us, reaching us at roughly the same time as Elijah and his pack of Good Samaritans. Curran had ditched the gun at some point, I noticed. Onyx—who was also bleeding—still held the fake-antique dagger. It flew through the air a moment later, disappearing into the water in a smooth arc as I watched.

“Police,” Elijah was saying, somewhat frantically. “We need police! And—Christ, Gabriel, your arm...” He swallowed hard. “And an ambulance!”

“Astynomía,” Gabriel rasped, as two men approached him and started fussing over his wound. “Asthenofóro.”

“We’re tourists,” Elijah tried, as Curran shouldered in and took Gabriel’s arm in his hands, tearing the shirt sleeve away with alpha strength.

More rapid conversation, and one of the newcomers produced a phone and lifted it to his ear. Some of the men broke away to check on the fallen goons, prodding at them for signs of life. The buzzing in my ears was growing louder. When Elijah came up and wrapped shaking arms around me, I couldn’t help but sag against him.

“You’re all right?” he asked breathlessly.

I nodded. “You?”

“I... I think so.” He squeezed me tighter. “Who the hell were those guys? How did they know we were here?”

Onyx joined us, wrapping a strip of torn cloth around what looked like a nasty defensive slash on their forearm. “It was the damned sailboat. It had to be. The captain of the Titania had its name and registration. Casick or one of the Huntwells could have tracked down the owner; bribed him to notify the hired muscle whenever we got here.”

“Bribed... or threatened,” I managed, dragging myself out of Elijah’s arms.

Onyx grunted. “Yeah. Or that.” Dark eyes swept over us, cataloguing our lack of obvious injuries. “Both of you okay? Thanks for getting help so fast, Rosebud. And for protecting the boss, Absinthe. Remind me not to piss you off, by the way.”

“We’re okay,” Elijah said, though his voice was shaky. “Better than you and Gabriel, anyway. What about Curran?”

“Gonna have a hell of a black eye,” Onyx replied. “Hang on. I need to make sure he ditched his knife. I saw him wipe the handgun grip and put it back in the shooter’s hand to get his prints on it, so at least that’s covered.”

They disappeared into the confusion, while in the distance, sirens approached. Elijah’s tanned skin held a pale, grayishundertone, and I’m sure I didn’t look much better. Every cursed omega instinct screamed to run and find a hole to hide in, but that wasn’t in the cards for either of us right now as the first of the police cars pulled up, lights flashing.

This was the first time I’d seen up close and personal how much difference money and status could make when it came to dealing with law enforcement in a foreign country. What started out as understandable suspicion about who we were and why we’d left three dead and injured men bleeding on the dock, quickly turned into deference.

A translator materialized within the first fifteen minutes at the hospital. Gabriel and Onyx were quickly whisked away for treatment, while the general tone changed abruptly from ‘who are you and what the hell is going on here’ to ‘we’re so incredibly sorry that such a thing could have happened to you while you were visiting our fine country.’

Elijah and I were both in a daze, answering questions with the minimum possible information. I wasn’t even angry when Curran played the traumatized omega card on our behalf, since it meant we were shuffled off to wait in a quiet room with dim lights and soft chairs.

Elijah curled forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I really don’t feel so good,” he said.

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