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  For an endless second, we didn’t speak. We just reacquainted that his soul was mine and mine was his and not even death could part us.

  Slowly, his head tipped down, lowering his brow, shadowing his eyes. His uninjured arm came up as he stepped across the final space. “Pim...”

  And whatever spell I’d been in popped, collapsing me into his one-armed embrace. Pressing my nose into his unique incense smell, I forced my shakes to subside.

  We hadn’t been apart long. But it had been the worst part of my life not knowing if he was alive or dead. He’d become so unbelievably dear to me.

  His arm twitched possessively around me, jerking me harder. His neck bent, and his face burrowed into my freshly washed hair.

  I gripped his waist, raising my head, needing more to this hello.

  Understanding, his chin raised, just enough to guide his lips to my jaw, to my cheek, to my lips. His warm mouth claimed mine, and I melted.

  Our tongues danced instantly, kissing deep and uncaring about location or circumstance.

  We might not care, but unfortunately, it didn’t mean other people didn’t. Selix didn’t permit even a few seconds of kissing before breaking us apart with a stern reprimand. “Prest. Unfinished business, remember?” He gave me an apologetic smile. “I’m glad you’re alive, Pim, but we have other things to take care of before—”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Selix. I remember.” Elder’s body twitched from loving to brutal. He pulled away, capturing my hand instead of my body. “Where is he, Pim?” He squeezed my fingers hard. “Where is the bastard?”

  I blinked. I knew who he meant. I understood the blackness in his gaze. I foresaw what would happen the moment he and Q came face to face. And as much as I wanted him to teach Q a lesson, so next time he might listen if a girl spoke the truth, I didn’t want more violence or Tess getting hurt.

  And she would be hurt.

  No one would enjoy their husband being mauled by another. No matter how justified.

  “El...don’t. Let’s just go home—”

  “What?” The blackness on his face deepened, his temper slashing. “What did you just say? Go home? After he almost ruined everything?” He laughed low and cruel. “Not going to happen. He has to pay, little mouse. No negotiations.”

  I fought the need to submit to his rage. To step aside and let him march into Mercer’s home and teach him a lesson—if he even could with his injuries. But instead, I fought my programming and stood my ground. “He made a mistake. He apologised. I accepted that apology for both of us. You’re hurt and need to rest. Picking a fight is stupid.”

  His nostrils flared, rage overflowing from me belittlingly his need to balance out honour.

  Saying it was stupid probably wasn’t the right thing.

  Laying my hand on his good arm, I tried again. “Please, El, I don’t want you hurt more than you already are.” I threw a fleeting look at Tess standing silhouetted in the window with Lino on her hip. I owed it to them to make Elder see reason.

  His voice whispered deathly calm. “I can’t decide if you want me to go home like a defeated asshole for my safety or for his. You should know, Pim, a few broken bones and whatever other shit the Chinmoku did to me won’t stop me in the slightest once I find the fucker.”

  Ugh, I sucked at this. “I’m not calling you weak, Elder. I’m not saying you can’t kick his ass. It’s because I believe you can—even battered like you are—that I’m asking you to be reasonable.” I waved my hand at the mother and child behind me. “He has a family. He made a mistake and apologised. We need to let it go...for everyone involved.”

  “Oh, I’ll let it go.” He chuckled. “Once he knows he never had the right to take you.”

  “But he thought—”

  “I don’t care what he thought, Pim. It’s what he did that counts.”

  “And what he did was justified in his mind. He saves slaves—”

  Elder turned positively monstrous. “Saves slaves? So he thought I was keeping you against your will? That I’d somehow forced you to fall in love with me? That what I feel for you must be a sick joke? That I’m fucking Alrik?” He laughed at the moon. “That goddamn cocksucker.” Cracking his neck, he tore at the sling over his arm and threw it to the ground. Shaking out his limb and ignoring whatever injury needed the contraption to heal, he barged past me. “I’ll show him—”

  I stumbled as his shoulder clipped me. Before, he’d revealed the level of discomfort he was in. Now...there was no limp. No hint of weakness just war.

  “No, wait—”

  A rumbling growl escaped Elder as I spun to go after him.

  I slammed to a halt, locking eyes with what he’d fixated on, sinking fast beneath the knowledge that I’d failed and no words could stop what was about to happen.

  Oh, no.

  Standing brazen and unfazed, framed by the wide open front door was Q Mercer.

  Tess flew from the lounge and spoke frantically, trying to slap sense into her husband just like I’d failed with Elder. Q merely ignored her with his hands in his pockets and waited. His posture lethal just like Elder’s. His temper unfurled and ready to defend his territory and woman, no matter the cost.

  Elder stalked, cursing under his breath, sounding more and more dragon as he approached.

  I chased after him, but Selix grabbed my bicep, incinerating me with a look that froze me to the spot. “You are not to interfere. You can’t. He needs to do this.”

  “He doesn’t need to do anything.” Ripping my gaze from his, I called after Elder. “Elder, please! Please, don’t do this.”

  But he didn’t turn around.

  He didn’t stop.

  With ears deaf and mind on retribution, he prowled toward his enemy.

  Chapter Nine

  ______________________________

  Elder

  I’D KILL HIM.

  I didn’t care I had injuries slowing me down and there was no logical, realistic way I could fight, let alone win.

  I didn’t care Pimlico had taken his side over mine even though it fucking cleaved me in two.

  I didn’t care I might pass out from fever and agony halfway through the battle and lose.

  I had to do this to avenge Pim, to prove to myself I hadn’t let her down, and balance whatever scales I’d ruined with my fuck-ups.

  Q Mercer was a dead man.

  That was all there was to it.

  If I died in the process of delivering that sentence...so be it.

  The ankle boot around my leg hindered my prowl, but as I sank deeper into war lust, I no longer felt the bone throb beneath. That was the thing about fighting—it was a drug. As consuming as marijuana; as cloying and addictive as any contraband.

  I no longer thought about what was possible but only what I needed to do.

  Kill him.

  Knowing I was on the cusp of violence deleted everything unnecessary out of comprehension. I had two fists (minus a broken finger). I had two arms (minus a bullet tear in my shoulder). I had two legs—

  Fuck it, this asshole doesn’t stand a chance even with my handicaps.

  And he was an asshole.

  Instead of coming to meet me—entering this duel and taking his punishment like a goddamn man, he remained steadfast in the doorway, gatekeeper to his home and anyone stupid enough to care for him.

  A woman flittered around him with something bulky bouncing on her hip, only for a petite girl in a maid’s uniform to yank her deeper into the house.

  Left alone, Mercer didn’t move; he merely watched me waste precious energy traversing his lawn.

  Bastard.

  I could shout profanities at him. I could murder him with words. But he knew what he’d done.

  He’d pulled the trigger. I’d ended up in pieces. It was his turn to know what that felt like.

  With only a few metres separating us, the bastard had the gall to say, “You’re hurt, Mr. Prest. I suggest you stop before you begin. I’m not opposed to hurting you some mor
e if you try to enter my home with violence.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Pity for him I wasn’t afraid and I’d stopped doubting my odds at winning in my current state. I had fury on my side, and it was a vicious instructor when it came to survival.

  He could be a great fighter for all I knew. He could have mastered martial arts like I had. But unlike me, he’d been taught with rules and parameters in place. When I’d learned how to fight, the Chinmoku had taken the rule book and shredded it with a machete.

  I could beat him with a fractured ankle and busted elbow and any other malady without even breaking a sweat.

  Three metres remaining.

  Two metres.

  One.

  My hands locked into fists, my distended finger bellowing at being forced to curl. After this, I’d need another splint after throwing the last one on the helicopter floor, but for now...it had a job to do just like the rest of my body.

  I swung before I’d even climbed the top step.

  His eyes flared as he staggered backward, my blow striking his cheekbone. If he’d expected some sort of conversation or ceremony before I began, he knew now I had no such intention.

  The crunch of his face ricocheted up my arm as I stomped into his home, inhaling lemon and leather and baking.

  “You fucking took what wasn’t yours to take.” I breathed hard, already drunk on what I would do, how I would parry, what death I would deliver. “You shot my cello. You tampered with my world. Prepare to die.”

  A woman’s shout echoed through the house followed by the screech of something animal-like.

  Mercer removed his hands from his pockets, cupping his chin and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the white tiles beneath us. “Don’t look so smug, Prest.” His green eyes narrowed. “I gave you that one. I’m apologetic enough to allow you to draw blood. But heed my warning when I say it won’t happen again.”

  “Good.” I swung, missing him by a hair’s breadth as he ducked. Fucker is fast. “I don’t listen to warnings. Never have.”

  Mercer ducked to the side, avoiding another volley.

  With his hands free from his pockets, he raised them like a boxer. If he’d had training, it wasn’t professional. He looked as if he favoured knives and shanking his enemies rather than the old-fashioned way of blows.

  He returned my punch, wielding it with a precision I hadn’t expected. I arched backward, narrowly missing being pummelled in the nose.

  His face lost its French arrogance, reforming into a mask of cold-hearted evil.

  What he lacked in training, he made up for with sheer terrifying iciness.

  We didn’t speak again as we circled each other. I catalogued him with more respect, seeking his weaknesses and finding none. He studied me as a slaughterer would study the pig it was about to skin.

  No soul left in his eyes. No compassion.

  Just sheer-minded aggression.

  I actually relaxed.

  Men like him I knew. I spoke their language. It meant he was a worthy opponent. And when I handed his ass to him, it would be worth the new aches and bruises I’d undoubtedly be covered with.

  Our assessment of each other happened in a split second—one breath and we knew all we needed about the other. As much as I didn’t want to admit, we were cut from the same cloth. Both outsiders to a world where love and friendship were the norms. Somehow, I believed he’d missed out on that elusive feeling for most of his life—same as me. He’d been lonely—same as me. He’d channelled such flaws into unsatisfactory attributes—same as me.

  But that was where our similarities ended.

  He’d taken what wasn’t his to take.

  That was treason and deserved consequence.

  Forgetting the pain coursing through my blood, I inhaled deeply and let go.

  I sank.

  I embraced.

  I round-housed him with my fractured ankle and swallowed the groan of agony.

  He flew backward, landing on one knee, gasping as his lungs collapsed.

  I advanced, ready to make short work of this. I wanted him to die so I could earn forgiveness for my crimes. I needed him to disappear so I could make things right. However, he soared up, sucker-punching me in the ribs.

  I fought my body’s natural response to curl around the injury and stayed straight. Absorbing the fresh pain, I struck him again.

  His jaw clenched, accepting my challenge.

  Die. Just die.

  We dove straight into pandemonium.

  Time blurred as we danced in his foyer. He met me blow for blow—some landing, some not. His punches power-delivered and sharp-fast, but he still wasn’t as quick as I was.

  We circled and snarled. We kicked and punched.

  He struck with hard fists, breaking the thin skin on my forehead and sending a river of blood into my eyes. But it didn’t stop me from advancing—always advancing.

  I took the offense. He took defence. Occasionally swapping roles to deliver equal amounts of damage.

  I was right when I thought him a worthy opponent. I was the better fighter. But he had a talent I hadn’t pre-empted—a talent that meant he not only stayed alive but also became more adapt at kicking my ass the longer we warred.

  He watched and learned.

  When I threw a crane kick followed by a sequence of Kung Fu chops designed to eliminate the enemy’s ability to breathe, he threw the same combination back at me—slightly sloppy and with untrained power—but enough to stop me from gaining much ground.

  Our breathing mixed with grunts and groans as we gave up our stance as men and returned to our natural state as beasts.

  I threw a mismatch of uppercuts and body slams. He kicked at my knee caps and ribcage.

  Somewhere in our fight, the sound of women’s pleas rang. Men’s shouts tried to interrupt the roar in my head of win, win, win. But Mercer didn’t look away, and neither did I.

  Punch.

  Kick.

  Fight.

  Spin.

  Die, motherfucker, die.

  At some point, I forgot why we were even fighting. All I knew was bone-crippling pain and a swimming mind. My ingrained skills at battling were the only thing marshalling my trembling limbs into action.

  Every punch, a sickness bubbled in my veins.

  Every kick, a weakness crept along my skin.

  I wasn’t losing to him. I was losing to the fever and prior wounds steadily stripping me of power and stamina.

  Sweat dripped down my forehead from a mixture of old pain and new. Sweat glistened on his face, too. Only, it wasn’t the sickly kind. I just hoped he couldn’t see how close I was to losing my grip on this reality.

  My vision danced with spots and not from his punches.

  My ears popped and affected my balance and not from his uppercuts.

  It was my own goddamn body slowly condemning me.

  Every injury, every gunshot and stitch and scab leeched me of my normal endurance. Perhaps Selix was right, and I didn’t stand a hope of success. But I had to try for Pim. I had to prove to her—even if it was subconsciously—that I was still man enough to take care of her. Still feral and dangerous enough to keep the monsters of her past at bay.

  And I’m fucking failing.

  I struck harder, quicker, crueller.

  Mercer gasped for breath, a mixture of blood and spit marring his cheeks and chin. Unprepared for yet another level of chaos, he lost ground quickly. Tasting victory, I added yet another layer of crazy, throwing everything I had left, begging the fever in my blood to leave me alone and for my broken body to behave just a little fucking longer.

  But for every step Mercer lost, he gained an inch. His focus switched from defending himself to studying my slovenly swings, then doing his best to deliver it back to me. His dark hair shone under the foyer lights as I backed him closer and closer to a corner, straining for the finish line where I was the victor, he was dead, and Pim was safe once again.

  He was good. Better than good.
>
  But I was better still.

  But I was also faking it. My vision only showed shadows now not full detail. My ears no longer worked. My hands numb. My body a dead weight with injury. I’d been unconscious enough in my life to recognise the warning signs: the chugging breathing but still dying for oxygen. The rapid blinking but still stupidly blind.

  I swung another fist, missing even though I was sure on trajectory. It gave Mercer enough time to get one over me, connecting squarely with my temple.

  I groaned, slipping closer to the empty cavern inside, greedily pulling me from all angles.

  He struck again.

  I managed to block and deliver my own temple dusting blow.

  Then something wriggled out the corner of my eye, distracting Q just enough for me to land a square pummel to his cheekbone.

  He fell to his knees, shaking his head. Blood ran from his nose and corner of his mouth.

  I stumbled on the spot, half-awake but mostly dead. Had I won? Did I want to kill him, or was this enough? Would I be satisfied having him kneel before me, or did I need him in a coffin?

  Before I could decide, he spat a wad of blood onto the floor and something triggered in him. Something about seeing his blood on the floor of his home switched him into a ruthless defender.

  He charged up, growling like a deranged animal, ramming his shoulder into my ribcage and hurling me backward.

  I slammed to the ground, utterly robbed of air as my cracked ribs threatened to puncture my lungs.

  Sensing my weakness, Mercer straddled me, pressing his knees onto my biceps and pulling out a sharp knife from his waistband.

  He had a knife this entire time?

  Poor form, fucking cheater.

  “Enough.” Pressing the sharp blade against my throat, he hissed, “I said enough.”

  Our eyes tangled.

  Wolf to wolf.

  Dragon to dragon.

  I would decide when enough was enough, and this wasn’t it.

  With a colossal burst of strength and the final dregs of my energy, I shoved him off me and slammed him onto his back.

  Grabbing his neck, I snarled, “You didn’t listen. You didn’t see how much I fucking love her.” Squeezing hard, I begged him to die. “You fucking shot me and took her from me, and now you’ll pay the goddamn price.”