Page 55 of Hostile King

All I feel is slippery, warm blood seeping from the bullet hole in Tomás’ gut and worry he won’t make it to safety in time. One man ducks behind the hood of a cherry red truck, aims a sniper rifle and takes a pop at a shooter positioned on the roof of a building. The next guy keeps low, practically crawling towards us with his firearm raised.

The paltry blade in my shaky hand is no competition for the revolver in his. I blink away the scattered dots in my vision and try to push to my feet.

“Get down!”

The guy with boots just like André’s launches at me. We wrestle, him on top smothering me on the concrete and me trying to get a full range swing with the small blade.

“Carina, fucking hell, it’s me.”

He manages to slide the handkerchief down his nose, revealing his identity—André. I immediately come to a peaceful halt, relief washing over me until Tomás roars. He’s too far gone in a mind glitch to realize it’s his own brother. He twists, growling in agony, and hurls himself forward, his large hands wrapping André’s throat.

I witness the unquenchable thirst for blood in his ferocious gaze. “Get your fucking hands off her. She’s not going anywhere. I’ll break your neck with my bare hands, motherfucker.”

Even now, weakened from excessive blood loss and reeling in agony, he’s blindly protecting me, unable to recognize his own flesh and blood from the carnage in his mind. The brothers buck and thrash. Tomás sinks into feral depths while André throws out desperate blows to tame the out-of-control beast strangling him.

They fight like a pair of rabid dogs, teeth gnashing and their brawn colliding as they wrangle. He roars with pain and savagery, the diehard sound a gruesome battle cry amidst intermittent bursts of gunfire all around us.

“Tommy…it’s me…for fuck’s sake…,” spittle sprays from André’s snarl. “Don’t make me…shoot you…cabrón.”

The venom of Tomás’ wrath is impenetrable. Not even his sibling can reach him. He’s depleting every drop of adrenaline in an unnecessary skirmish. For me.

“Tomás. Let go of your brother.” I move quickly, ducking as more shots tear up the fatal atmosphere. “We need to get out of here.” My fingertips wipe his sweat-laden brow in the hope our connection will banish his demons. “They’re still shooting at us. I need your help.”

The reverse psychology works. It’s only when he thinks I need him, that his murderous mood calms. His vice-like grip unravels, his arms flop listlessly when he rolls onto his back drained of power, and his eyes look at the bold blue sky. He forces himself to swallow and dabs the crimson flow oozing from his torso.

“Fuck,” he says lucidly, acknowledging the damage.

“Christ, Tommy. It’s me—Dré.” He rubs his neck. “You’re still a psycho fucker, but now she’s the reason you glitch. Come on, get your ass up. Time to go”

His eyes roll in the back of his head. “Dré…Jesus fuck…get her out of here…don’t let them get her or I really will fuck everyone up.”

Matheus and Giovanni create a shield with their bodies, keeping guard and shooting back at the enemy. Tomás hisses with each movement, his attempts to sit upright a failure every time.

“It’s okay…I’ve got you.” My palm is pressed firm on his torso warm and sticky with blood like a bolt of lightning to spare every last drop.

A tremor racks my skeleton even though it's baking warm under the high sun. I want to throw my arms around him and hug him close. To latch onto him and never let go.

Without lies and deceit, ungodly plans, and cash payouts, he’d revealed something pure and genuine. The ruler with a hardened heart had exposed the impossible.

He gave me what I needed to hear.

Honesty. Acceptance.Love.

After he murdered his bride.

In the background, his brothers continue to fire off a few more rounds. Shane bustles into our space and hunkers to eye level.

“Are you okay, kid?” I recognize his Irish brogue even with a face covering hiding his identity. His gaze tightens, scanning the mess I’m. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay. It’s all his...” My small voice wavers. I watch him assess the macabre painting my thin cotton dress. His eyes soften for a beat, a look of anguish creasing his green eyes that have darkened to a shade more lethal than poison ivy.

“Good, then you can run like fuck. We won’t make it to the airfield by car. There’s a chopper flying in. When I say run, you fucking run and keep going. Get on board, buckle up and stay there.”

He fixes me with a flinty glare, a look that tells me to obey without question. That would be easy to do, if Tomás wasn’t dying beside us.

“Cover him.” He nods to André who responds with a muted nod and a crick of his bruised throat. “Matheus, you go with Carina. Both of you get in the helicopter and wait for us. If we don’t make it in time, get the hell out of this city. Teresa is waiting in the private jet. The chopper will be here any minute. We’ll look after Tommy from here.”

“No,” I say breathlessly, the urgency electrifying my muscles. “I won’t leave him.”

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