Page 122 of Wild Thing

I hold my breath and study the two thugs, not sure if they’re the same ones who took us.

They’re both shorter than Archer but a bit taller than me. One of them has a swollen nose.Hello, fucker.

“The king of the hill,” the other one rasps and laughs as he gives Archer an up-and-down look. I recognize the voice.

Archer’s chain rattles as he takes a step closer.

“Settle down,” the thug barks.

The two are in their fifties, in plaid shirts, jeans, and boots, unshaved faces and sunbaked rough skin. The unclean stench coming from them is nauseating.

The one wearing a baseball hat sucks his teeth and walks up to Archer. “Settle down, boy,” he growls, the gun too loose in his hand, the safety on.

My heartbeat spikes.

The next movement is so sudden that my brain doesn’t process it fast enough, keeping me in a stupor for seconds.

Archer throws a sharp punch at the guy in front of him, sending him to the floor, the gun flying into the farthest corner, then starts kicking him.

The loud sound of a gunshot from the other guy deafens us, the room so small that my ears ring.

Adrenalin makes my heart pump like mad when I throw myself at the guy and start punching him.

He’s much bigger than me. That’s the truth about smaller people—they can fight but they can’t wrestle a much bigger opponent. And as I punch the hell out of the guy, he latches on to my thigh and squeezes as hard as he can, sharp pain piercing my flesh as a scream tears from my throat.

“I’ll shoot ‘er! I’ll shoot ‘er! Step back, fucker!” the other guy shouts as the one underneath me throws me off him.

Before I can catch him, he crouches toward the door. I lunge at him only to be yanked back, the metal cuffs cutting into my wrists and twisting me around.

Archer has his hands up in the air, eyes blazing with hate.

The two guys are on the ground, in the farthest corner we can’t reach, panting and pointing their guns at us.

“Fucking bitch,” one guy rasps, sending me a murderous stare, and spits blood on the ground.

Archer and I take slow steps back.

If they could, they would’ve shot us. But they didn’t, not even when they were being beat up. That’s how I know that they are not the executioners, they’re hired.

The guy whose baseball hat is lying on the ground is bald, his face completely bloodied when he gets up, gun cocked at Archer.

“On ye’ knees,” he rasps, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“Fuck you.” Archer spits at his feet.

The thug’s chuckle is a nasty sound, with a gurgling that comes deep from his lungs and turns into a coughing fit. When he calms down, that nasty sparkle in his eyes is back. “Wanna trade ye’ island fo’ this pretty thing ove’ here? Daddy can afford it, no?”

Archer’s jaw tightens. “I’ll cut off your balls and let you heal,” he says in a sharp voice I’ve never heard before, “then drop you off on the mainland, in a prison, so they can play with you, you fucking degenerate.”

The guy’s face darkens as he shifts his angry stare at me and nods in my direction, licking his bloodied lips. “How ‘bou’ we take this pretty ‘un to play?”

Not a chance. “Fuck you,” I hiss, ready to claw and bite and kick with everything I’ve got.

But Archer shifts. Slowly, he sinks to his knees, hands still up in the air.

Fuck, baby.

I’m his weak spot, and he just let them know.

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