Page 114 of Onyx Realm

“Now!”

I did as he instructed, slamming down on the throttle. The engine roared, then whined in protest. The boat jerked violently. Metal and wood groaned.

Markos kept shooting, movements solid on the unsteady surface.

I jiggled the wheel, forcing the rudder to move and wiggle us free.

A violent curse, and Markos collapsed.

I froze, escape forgotten. That wet spot on his shirt wasn’t saltwater. Drops of crimson splattered to the wooden deck.

“Get us out of here,” he barked.

My gaze shifted to the dock. There was one more left, and he wasn’t retreating. I let the motor run as it would without my control and crept forward.

“Give me the gun,” I insisted and held out my hand.

Markos studied me, face contorted in pain. “There’s only one bullet, prinkípissa.”

I swallowed the whimper of fear. Shooting wasn’t something I spent a lot of time doing—a mistake I would remedy immediately.

“If he gets closer, I can hit him,” I said, grateful that my voice didn’t shake too badly. “Trust me.”

“I do.” He didn’t even pause. The gun dropped into my outstretched hand, the metal warm from his touch. “Aim for the throat, just above his vest.”

Inching back, I peered around the opposite side of the captain’s stand. There was barely enough room to see.

The attacker fired, the bullet whizzing past my ear. Heartbeat thundering, I steadied my hand, bracing myself against the aperture. Sandro’s voice echoed in my head from the one time he’d taken me to the range: “Breathe out when you pull the trigger.”

I exhaled, squeezed, and the gun kicked back against my palm.

The masked man staggered, clutching his neck. Red bloomed between his fingers before he crumpled to the dock.

“Turn the wheel! Get us out!” Markos commanded through gritted teeth.

Dropping the empty gun, I scrambled back to the controls. The mooring lines strained as I reversed the throttle. With aviolent snap, they broke free, and we lurched backward into open water.

“Markos,” I gasped, turning to him once we were back in the safety of the water, the shore a blurred line in the distance.

“You did it, prinkípissa,” he panted.

The blood in my veins chilled, and my heart leapt to my throat. He didn’t sound good.

I cut the engine, letting us float where the waves willed. Scrambling back to his side, I knelt. Blood covered his hands, leaking in crimson rivulets from his side and from his thigh.

“Merda!” I sprang away, going for rope and a fishing pole. I broke the rod, using the thicker end piece as a stick. Somewhere, from the recesses of my mind, I remembered how to make a torniquet.

I couldn’t draw in enough oxygen. The edges of my vision blurred as I hurried to staunch the flow on his thigh.

Markos brushed a sticky finger over my cheek. “You did it.”

“You said that already,” I choked.

He murmured, the sound rough in his chest. Reaching up behind, he found his phone in the nook on the stand. Once the leg stopped leaking, I moved for my dress to press against his lower belly.

But his fumbling fingers trying to press the phone screen and glassy gaze made me still.

A sudden rush of horror shot through me. This was underworld business, which meant—

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