Page 4 of Beautiful Scars: Unshakeable

"What the fuck are you doing?"

I shoulder past him and go inside, heading straight for the whiskey. "At least I’m out there doing something.”

“You think beating people half to death is helpful?" Zane follows me into the living room, his voice rising. "You're destroying every chance we have of finding her. These people talk to each other Levi. They're going underground because of you."

I round on him. "While we sit here doing nothing, he has her. Do you understand what that means?"

"You think I don't understand?" His face flushes and he closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath before continuing. "Look. Levi. Think about this a minute. Please. Garrett's watched her for seven years. He never made contact with her. She never knew he was there. He values her. Obviously. If he didn’t, he would've—"

His mouth slams closed. He can't bring himself to say the words that I can't stop thinking.

"Would've what?" Rage explodes out of me as his voice trails off. "Say it."

Anger flashes in his eyes at the challenge, but he stays silent. So, I continue, "Finished what he started all those years ago? Killed her? You know as well as I do that there are a hell of a lot of things worse than death, Z. You didn't see what he did to her last time."

"No, I didn't. But—"

There are no 'buts'. He has no idea of the damage Garrett inflicted on Sunny. There's no reason to think this time will be any different. End any different.

My fist curls and connects with his jaw before I can stop it.

Z staggers back, his eyes wide with shock. The surprise only lasts a second. I take a step backward as his expression falls—replaced with a cold calculating calm. Seconds tick by as the silence stretches out between us.

Without warning, he launches himself at me. I ball my fist and swing wildly not caring where it lands. The impact vibrates up my arm and through my shoulder. He backs off, his eye swelling and turning a deep shade of red.

He blocks my next swing easily, deflecting it to the side. His counter-punch catches me in the ribs—controlled, precise, brutal. It steals my breath, and I double over gasping.

Everything Z does is measured. Perfectly controlled. Always.

I hate him for it right now.

With a loud roar I charge forward, slamming into him and throwing him off balance. My ribs scream in agony as we fall, crashing through the coffee table in an explosion of glass and wood. We land hard, both stunned.

Splinters and shards of glass dig into my palms as I brace myself and push back up to my feet. Z gets his legs under him quickly and we circle each other, waiting for an opening.

He hesitates for just a moment and I take the opportunity. I drive my fist into his stomach. Once. Twice. His knee comes up, catches me right under my ribs in the center of my chest. The air is forced violently out of my lungs.

Z uses the moment to take a hard swing. His fist crashes into my mouth. I taste copper and my mouth fills with blood. The room spins but I launch forward again. We slam into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall.

Sweat runs into my eyes. I blink it away, my vision blurring. Z's face swims in front of me—calm and focused despite the purple forming around his eye, his split lip and the blood coming from his nose.

When I step back, still swinging, his defense is textbook.

Finally, I land a solid punch. His head snaps back. Before he can recover, I grab his shirt and drive my knee up into his side. He doubles over and I bring my elbow down onto the back of his neck.

Z drops to one knee. I follow him down and lock my arm around his throat and squeeze. His pulse hammers against my forearm as he fights to free himself. His fingers claw at my skin, drawing blood. I tighten my grip and it goes quiet. The only sound is ragged breathing.Myragged breathing.

Z's struggles begin to weaken. My arms shake with the effort of holding on to him. Blood drips steadily onto the floor—mineor his, I can't tell anymore. I only know that this feels good. My mind is empty. Quiet. There's nothing but pain and blood and the harsh burn in my lungs.

"Boss." Rex's voice cuts through the red haze. "Let him up."

The words don't register at first. I can barely hear him over the blood pounding in my ears and the satisfying weight of Z as he goes slack under my arm.

Rex repeats his command. Several times.

I ignore him each time.

Cold metal presses against my temple. The contact snaps me back into the room—to Rex standing next to me with his weapon drawn and ready.

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