Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Cinna

Not much would have called me away from something so major going on with the family.

But the call was from Joel.

And that could only mean one thing.

I answered figuring it would just be him giving me the lowdown about someone coming out of my place, snooping around.

“Someone’s here,” he whispered, voice tight.

“What?” I asked.

“Someone is here. Five-ten. Bulky. Brown hair. Thousand-dollar kicks. He’s—“

“Slow down. They’re still there?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’m coming,” I said, glancing around to make sure no one would miss me, then sneaking out the back, running toward the street to flag down a cab.

Excitement sizzled across my nerve endings at the idea of finally, fucking finally , getting a lead. Someone who would actually know something. That could lead to some answers. The guys I was looking for. So I could finally make them pay.

And, hopefully, in doing so, I might be able to take back that part of myself I felt like I’d lost that night. The part that was so sure of herself, so strong, the part that wasn’t afraid.

Because even as the cab drove down the blocks toward my apartment, the anticipation melted into something else. Something all-too familiar recently.

Anxiety.

Worse still, fear.

I swallowed back the coppery taste of it as I tossed money at the driver, then rushed out of the cab, refusing to give into it, to let it rule me.

I was up to my floor in what felt like a blink, my gun in my hand.

Joel was in his usual seat by the windows.

“Get in your apartment,” I whisper-yelled at him before going to my door, taking a steadying breath as the adrenaline spread through my veins, making me feel hot and jittery as I turned the knob slowly, trying not to alert whoever was inside.

My stomach was doing nauseating somersaults as I pushed the door open and flew inside.

Where he’d been waiting for me.

Just behind the door.

This hadn’t been a reconnaissance mission.

It was a planned attack.

A trap.

And I’d walked right into it.

I must have flinched, something inside of me sensing his presence, because he was close enough to be precise, but the blow landed across the back of my neck and lower part of my skull instead of a full head shot.

I stumbled forward, heartbeat punching against my ribcage, pain screaming through my head as I fought against the swirling in my brain, trying to keep my equilibrium and turn back toward him, face him, fight him .

But he was faster, hands landing on my shoulders, sending me flying, crashing.

I threw out my arms, coming down on my forearms, protecting my still-healing wrist.

Pushing, I rolled onto my back, bringing my legs up, knees to chest, feet out, kicking out as he got closer.

But the blow wasn’t enough to send him flying, just stumbling back and rushing forward, this time grabbing my legs when I tried to kick out again, wrenching them around, forcing me to twist and flip onto my stomach.

Panic screamed alarm bells through my head as I scrambled up, wanting to get off my stomach, knowing how badly things could go in this position.

But he was too quick, moving to stand over me, grabbing me around the throat, fingers pressing just right, making my breath catch, making my head go fuzzy.

There was a horrifying moment of clarity.

I was going to pass out .

And then he could do whatever he wanted to me.

My hands clawed at his, scratching over his skin, making him hiss in pain, but his hold stayed true.

My vision was starting to go blurry.

Then, suddenly, there was a loud crash, and my attacker’s body came crashing down on me, crushing me to the floor as he let out a groan of pain.

What just happened?

I pushed up, groaning against the effort to shove him off of my back and roll away.

To find Joel, the kid, standing there with my lamp in his hands, wide-eyed and shaky.

My little fucking savior.

“Joel, go!” I yelled, rushing up to my feet to get between him and the kid.

“Little shit,” my attacker snarled, reaching back to rub his head, his hand coming back red. “You’re gonna pay for that.”

“Over my dead body,” I said, reaching back to keep Joel behind me as I inched toward the side, mind on my gun on the ground.

“That’s the plan,” the attacker said, charging forward, slamming me backward. Into Joel. Who crashed into the wall. Crushed by the two of us. He let out a grunt as I cocked back my hand and swung, landing a bit to the side, catching the guy on his jaw instead of his nose.

But there was a satisfying grunt of pain in response, at least.

His own fist shot out, and I couldn’t dodge it, not unless I wanted Joel to take it, so I turned my head to try to have his blow graze instead of strike.

He had a ring on his finger, though, and I could feel it slicing across my skin, a burning sort of pain that helped me focus past my panic.

I brought my knee up, slamming hard between his legs, stealing his breath, and sending him stumbling back a few steps, giving me enough room to move away from Joel, so I wasn’t crushing him anymore.

“Go, Joel,” I hissed as I rushed forward, trying to take advantage of the guy’s incapacitation.

I charged at him, landing an uppercut to his jaw, sending him sprawling.

The grunt as he landed chased back more of my fears.

This.

This was what I was good at.

Fighting.

Winning.

I had a perfect track record, in fact.

No matter how close it got, I always walked away.

Even that last time, as bad as it had been, I’d gotten up. I’d gotten away.

They weren’t going to win.

They couldn’t break me, damnit.

He was fast, though, popping up like a ridiculous hero in an action movie.

But he didn’t charge at me.

He went for my weak spot.

He made a beeline for the kid.

Joel’s attention was on me, still wide-eyed and disbelieving, like he wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten here, let alone found himself in the middle of a fight.

“No!” I yelled, making Joel stiffen.

But it was too late.

The guy had grabbed Joel by the wrist, dragging him away from the wall. There was a popping sound followed by a loud howl from Joel. Like he’d dislocated the kid’s shoulder as he pulled Joel in front of him.

One hand produced a knife and pressed it to Joel’s throat. The other held him against his body. An actual human shield.

Joel froze.

Not that there was anything he could do, anyway.

The kid was all skin and bones.

The attacker wasn’t super tall, but he was bulky, strong. There was no getting away from him if you didn’t at least have some kind of training.

“Let him go. He’s no use to you,” I said, inching around as he kept moving, arching in half a circle, forcing me away from the exit, putting himself between me and it.

As if I could run and leave the kid.

Maybe others might.

Maybe he would.

But there was no reality where I was leaving Joel to deal with the consequences of my actions.

“Oh, I think he is. Got you squirming,” he said, a sick grin tugging at his lips. “Now walk your pretty ass over to the couch and sit the fuck down.”

Joel’s big eyes were watching me, and his head shook slightly side to side. Like he didn’t want me to do what I was being told.

But what choice did I have?

“Don’t even think about it,” he said as I eyed my gun on the way toward the couch. “Matter of fact, toss away your knife.”

“I don’t—“

“I’ll take it from you,” he said. “After I carve the Adam’s apple out of this kid’s throat.”

“Relax,” I said, voice shaky as I sat on the couch, reaching down for my boot, and pulling the knife free, before sending it flying across the room.

“Hey, Cinna,” Joel called, voice shaky, something in his eyes willing me to understand.

“Shut the fuck up,” the man snarled.

“Don’t talk,” I demanded, seeing the knife against his throat, close enough to prick his skin.

“Just be ready,” Joel said, something in his face making my stomach drop.

Just a second before he did.

Joel’s whole body went limp.

And I watched, a cry caught in my throat, as the knife scratched down his neck, a long red streak.

But shallow.

Superficial.

The attacker wasn’t prepared for the movement, and wasn’t ready to grab him tighter, and keep him on his feet.

So Joel went to the floor, scrambling away on all fours as I flew up, charging across the room, grabbing the bastard’s wrist and pinning it to the wall, trying to wrench the knife free.

His hand shot out, grabbing a handful of my hair, yanking back hard enough for me to see stars as the pain shot across my scalp.

“That’s all you got?” I snapped, nails clawing at his hand, prying his fingers loose.

The knife clattered to the ground, forgotten.

Because the next thing I knew, his fist was striking out and landing, making me stumble back.

I had to get a fucking weapon.

He was bigger. Stronger. And being faster wasn’t always enough to win against someone like him.

“Joel,” I called, ducking under the guy’s arm, feeling him catch my wrist. “In the cushion,” I called, yanking my hand free and stumbling back a few steps, just out of reach.

Joel’s hand plunged between the cushions, looking, face blank, until his fingers closed around it. The little round bottle.

My pepper spray.

Well, one of many.

I had bought extras and stashed them around, my paranoia these days knowing no bounds.

Except, of course, it wasn’t actually paranoia when someone was out to get you.

Joel held it up, cocked his arm back, and sent it sailing.

My hand grabbed it.

But so did my attacker’s.

Both of us pulling at it, trying to get control of it.

Somehow, in the struggle, one of us must have worked the safety cap off of it.

And the next thing I knew, one of us—or both of us—were pressing against the top, and the spray was shooting out.

There was no way to dodge it.

The spritz was just cold at first.

Until the burn set in.

“Fuck,” I hissed, stumbling back, eyes on fire, making it impossible to see, so I kept stumbling back, trying to get away from a man who had a major advantage now that my own fucking weapon was being used against me.

Disoriented, I was confused when my back slammed into something waist height.

My kitchen counter.

Kitchen.

I didn’t own a single pot or pan.

Not a spatula or soup ladle.

But I did have knives.

Frantically trying to blink at the sting in my eyes, I fumbled along my counter, trying to orient myself.

Until I came across the long, low drawer.

I grabbed at it, yanking it open, misjudging its placement, and hitting my hip in the process.

My hand plunged in, grabbing at silverware until, finally, I felt the thick handle of my biggest knife.

“Right in front of you!” Joel called as I pulled the knife out, holding it close to my body, so my attacker couldn’t wrench it from me until I was sure of where to strike.

I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to see anyway, but hoping it would help the pain.

Which put me relying completely on my other senses.

I felt the air move just a second before a hand closed around my throat.

Panic soared, but I tamped it down.

This was good.

He was close.

I could feel most of him against me.

Which gave me a good target.

I shifted my hand on the handle, tightened my grip, and plunged.

It was a low blow, down by his hip because I didn’t want to risk hitting him somewhere that would allow him to stop me.

It took more force than most people would imagine to stab a knife into someone. More than superficially anyway. And I was trying to do damage.

“Fuck,” he growled, releasing my throat as he stumbled back.

I yanked on the handle, feeling the tension as his muscle and fat tried to hold onto it.

As soon as it was out, I slammed forward again.

And again.

And again.

Blood wet my fingers, slipped down my hand, made my hold sticky on the handle.

But I was too crazed in that moment to care, pulling it out over and over, slamming it back in.

There was a thud as he suddenly fell to the ground.

I followed him, my body coming down on his.

And I just kept plunging in the knife.

His stomach.

His chest.

Over and over.

The definition of overkill.

Especially when his body went limp under mine.

“Cinna!” Joel cried out, making me still.

“What? What is it?” I asked, head whipping around, but my vision was still blurry.

“You can put the knife down, love,” a familiar voice said, making my belly flip-flop. “He’s dead.”