Page 99 of Shockproof

Harder.

Faster.

One punch becomes two.

Two becomes three.

Three transforms into the prelude to me kneeling on his chest. Wrapping my hands around his pencil neck, I begin squeezing with everything I have, wanting him –needing him– to experience the ache he summoned over taking her.

Over…killing her.

How could I let this happen?

His hands fruitlessly pound on my sides until I inch up further pinning his shoulders down instead.

How could I not save her?

His lower half kicks the edge of the wooden frame for reprieve.

How could I fail the most important mission of my goddamn life?!

His crystal stare that’s similar to mine widens during the continued oxygen deprivation convincing me to angle my wrists inward so that my thumbs can dig into his octal cavities on a malicious, madness fueled roar.

All of a sudden, an unexpected movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention over to the bathroom door. I thoughtlessly loosen my hold at the same time I croak, “Angel Cake?!”

Rosenkrantz takes advantage of the slack, forcefully shoves me off, and sits up straight to suck in a deep breath. I prepare to launch myself back up onto my feet to finish what I started when a round pierces the back of his head only to come out through the very territory, I was gouging split seconds ago. His lissome frame teeters over to the headboard announcing his death with an almost cartoonish thud that sends my bright gaze back to the woman of my dreams.

She carefully lowers the gun, mangled rope dangling from each of her wrists. “Status report?”

Inexplicable relief weasels itself along every bone in my body during my hasty crawl over to her. “Grateful.”

“Holes?”

“No new ones.”

My best friend sweetly interrogates, shaky hands still gripping the firearm “Bones?”

“Intact.”

“Cuts?”

“They’ll heal.” I declare in tandem with transferring my Baretta back to me. “Fuck, everything will heal, baby. It always does.”

Sliding the safety on occurs as she asks, “So, does this whole putting a bullet in his brain thing count asmesavingyou, Cowboy? Or maybe we can call it a fifty-fifty split?” Softness fusing with playfulness. “That seems fair to me.”

“We can call it whatever the fuck you like as long as you’re alive to call it, Angel Cake.”

There isn’t time for her to even smile at the statement before my mouth captures Arley’s. While one palm cradles the secure weapon, the other roughly cups her face, lips savagely spreading hers to grant my tongue all the access it needs to taste what it momentarily feared it would never taste again.

Caress what it worried it would never caress again.

Claim who I broke a promise to about keeping safe.

I don’t care what I have to do in the future to guarantee that my word is never broken again, I’ll do it.

I’ll light every candle.

Beg every angel.

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