Page 181 of Three Irish Kings
His grin turns into a sneer. “She’s bonny, and a bit pale. Well, not so pale now since I roughed her up.”
Red taints my vision, and I run at him.
He fires off two shots, but they must have gone wide because even through the numbness I feel nothing—no hit, no pull, no pain.
I tackle him around the waist, knocking him to the ground.
He curses, his gun falling on the grass. He starts pummeling my ribs.
There is a crack or two, but I can’t even feel it.
I punch him in the throat, hard, twice.
Anger consumes me that he so much as deigned to touch Isla.
Punch after punch rain on him. His face, his throat, his temples. No part of his head and neck left untouched.
The crunch of his nose is satisfying, but not enough.
Blood spatters on my shirt and my face, and he chokes again, trying to gurgle out words, but I don’t stop.
He touched her, roughed her up. My Isla.
Fucker is dead, just doesn’t know it yet, and the fact that I’m using my hands instead of a weapon makes my chest swell with pride.
Nothing else exists but the pure satisfaction of the smack of skin hitting skin as my fist connects to his face time and time again.
He’s not punching back anymore, not even twitching, and still I punch and punch.
My knuckles bleed, a few fingers broken from the sheer force I’m using, and still I keep going.
Even after his face caves in, I still land a couple of punches to his throat for good measure.
As the red taint drops from my vision, I come to, breathing hard, chest heaving.
My ribs ache with every breath; I have a few bullets still in me and a few through and through, but I keep going.
Each step is harder than the next, but I won’t let myself stop, won’t drop until I’m sure she is safe.
Exhaustion threatens to take me over.
I’m not done yet, goddamnit.
I turn the corner and walk up onto the back patio, the bottom floor, and gurgling sounds have me looking up to see a man crawling down the stairs, choking on his own blood.
What the fuck?
Has everything gone sideways?
Liam must have had to kill someone?—
I look further up the stairs, and Isla stands there, holding what looks like a fucking bloodied letter opener, her chest heaving, blood all over her face and shirt.
And she has a black eye.
Fucking Reese. I’m glad I busted his head in.
“Isla…”
