Page 42 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
"Performance reviews during firefights?" Her hand grips my forearm, fingernails digging into skin. But there's something else in her voice, something that makes my chest tighten.
"Always room for improvement," I signal for her to stay behind me while bullets chip concrete above our heads. "Even in dying."
A shadow moves across the doorway. The third attacker advances with more caution than his partners, firing controlled bursts that force us deeper into cover. Concrete dust rains down as bullets strike the column.
"Amateur," I mutter while reloading. "Wasting ammunition on suppression."
The gunfire stops. Movement in my peripheral vision. The bastard flanked us while I was focused on his position.
"Frost!" Vanessa's scream pierces the air.
I spin to see the third man's arm locked around her throat, dragging her backward toward the shattered window. Her feet scramble for purchase on the glass-covered floor. Terror floods her dark eyes.
Something snaps inside me. The cold calculation that defines every mission, every shot, every breath—gone. Raw fury floods my veins like molten metal.
I move without thinking. No tactical approach. No clean shot assessment. Just pure violence.
The attacker sees me coming, tries to raise his weapon with his free hand. Too slow. I grab his wrist, twist until bone cracks. The gun clatters across the floor. He maintains his chokehold on Vanessa, using her as a shield.
"Let her go." My voice comes out wrong. Feral. Nothing like the controlled operative who entered this room.
He squeezes tighter. Vanessa makes a choked sound that ignites something murderous in my chest.
I drive my elbow into his temple. Once. Twice. His grip loosens enough for Vanessa to twist away. She stumbles toward the kitchen island, gasping.
The man swings wild. I duck under his punch, grab his throat with both hands. Squeeze. His eyes bulge as I lift him off the ground, tendons standing out in my forearms.
"You touched her." Each word comes out between his strangled attempts to breathe.
I slam him against the concrete wall. His head bounces off the surface with a wet crack. Blood spatters the gray surface. Not enough. I pull him forward and slam him again. Harder.
"Frost." Vanessa's voice sounds far away.
Another slam. The back of his skull caves slightly. Blood runs down the wall in crimson streams. His struggles grow weaker. Still not enough.
I drop him to the floor and mount his chest. My fists find his face. Right cross. Left hook. Right cross. Each impact sends blood spraying across my knuckles. Across my face. His nose flattens with a wet crunch. Orbital bone gives way under my knuckles.
Time loses meaning. There's only the sound of flesh meeting flesh, the splash of blood, the satisfying give of bone beneath my hands.
"Frost!" Louder now. Desperate.
I pull back for another strike. The man beneath me isn't moving anymore. His face is unrecognizable pulp. Blood pools around his shattered skull.
"Asher, he's dead! He's dead!"
Vanessa's voice finally penetrates the red haze. I look down at my hands. Knuckles split and bleeding. Covered in gore that isn't mine. The metallic taste of blood coats my tongue—must have bitten my lip.
I'm straddling a corpse. Breathing hard like I just ran miles. Chest heaving with exertion and leftover fury.
Heavy boots thunder up the stairwell. Kade's arrival.
I force myself to stand on unsteady legs. Vanessa stares at me from behind the island, eyes wide. Not with fear—with something darker. Something that sets fire to my veins after what just went down.
Kade appears in the doorway, weapon raised, then stops. Takes in the scene—two bodies with clean bullet holes, one with his head caved in, and me covered in blood.
"Jesus, Frost." He lowers his gun. "What happened to controlled shots?"
"Three down," I announce, my voice rougher than usual, breathing steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my system.
