Page 106 of The Bonds We Break
RAE
The gun is cool in my sweaty palm. I’ve never fired one before. I honestly never thought I would need to. But as King groans on the floor in front of me, I know I have no choice. Because as soon as they come for us, I’m going to kill them.
My heart pounds, raging with fear. I don’t know how to help him beyond the obvious first aid. But I can’t even give that my full attention because I know someone will come through the door any minute.
With a grunt, I drag King behind the spare bed. It won’t give us much cover.
He hisses.
“Sorry,” I mouth. I just want him out of view. I don’t know shit about bullets, but I’m assuming the solid wooden bed frame will slow the trajectory of one.
I was tired when we arrived home, but now I feel as if I’ve been connected to a powerful battery. Or one of those cardiac machines that restart your heart. Everything feels erratic and dreamlike, like the world is running backwards.
Intellectually, I know time is passing at its usual rate, but as I look at the bloodstain growing on King’s shoulder, my fear grows and everything passes in slow motion.
From his new position, he rolls onto his back, and I give him space to maneuver. He attempts to sit but can’t. I put my hands beneath his armpits and drag him. Pure adrenaline helps me lift him.
“Gun,” he whispers, and I give him his weapon. Blood covers the front of his chest too. I see it leak in time to his heart rate, and I pull the pillowcase off the pillow, bundle it up, and press it hard against the wound.
King screws up his face in agony, but the only sound is a hiss of air escaping between his teeth.
I can’t do this to him. I can’t hurt him more. But he grips my wrist with his bloodied hand and pushes down harder. King looks away from me, and I keep pressing hard.
Sweat beads on his forehead.
A creak on the stairs has us both looking back to the door.
Our backs are to the wall.
We have some cover from the bed, but this may be it. Knowing they are going to find us, I turn to King and whisper, “‘Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.’”
Through the pain, King smiles at me. “I love you too, duchess.”
The footsteps hit the top of the stairs. King holds up his hand and shows four fingers. We hear the bathroom door slam open. Then the bedroom door opens. Two more doors and they’ll be here. “Just fire,” King whispers. His whole body tremors.
It could be shock. I’m praying it’s not worse.
The door handle lowers, and in the background, I hear the low drone of motorbikes. The cavalry is here; I just don’t know if they will get here in time to help us.
King sits forward, and I rest my hands on the mattress to stop them from shaking.
And I do as he says. When the first two enter the room, I fire. A scream escapes my throat like the cork in a champagne bottle. Both dressed in black, one slumps to the ground immediately, the other returns fire. Bullets whiz past my ear so close I feel the breeze of them.
Splinters of wood from the desk behind me fly into the air.
The second intruder jumps back into the hallway, periodically opening fire, then stepping out of shot.
King’s shaking gets worse, but I keep firing until my bullets run out. Then I use my second weapon. Finally, I snatch King’s gun from him, given he is having trouble holding and firing it due to his injuries, and I fire again.
No one is getting to this man while there is breath in my body.
One shot. Another. A third. Over and over. More intruders try to make it into the room but can’t.
When I hear the loud roar of bikes silenced, swiftly followed by the roar of gunshots, I know the club members are here, but I can’t stop.
It’s still dangerous. I stand, my feet on either side of King’s legs, my eyes glued to the door.
I shoot until my gun runs out of bullets.
