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61. Weston

I told myself the whole way here to keep it cool. We don”t know what state we”re gonna find Renee in, and if Deacon has the balls to pull a knife and kidnap a woman, he has the balls to do a hell of a lot worse than that.

So we can”t let him have the chance.

Keep it cool. Play it smart. Don’t take risks.

But when I see that bastard on the edge of the bridge, holding Renee dangling out over black, empty space, I lose my fucking shit.

I don”t even park—I just skid to a stop that finishes inches shy of ramming Deacon’s car off the bridge. I leap out, hearing nothing but the blood and the heady, pounding adrenaline in my ears.

“Keep it cool” is long gone. I”m going to end this motherfucker.

I break out in a sprint. In a sick kind of sense, I’ve been training my whole life for this, haven’t I? What did Dad always tell me about skating?

Head down.

Drive your legs.

Eyes on the prize, son.

Deacon doesn”t see me coming.

But he sure as shit feels me.

The sound of breaking bone is familiar. I”ve done it so many times on the ice that it”s almost second nature. The satisfying crunch. The knowledge that shit is breaking in ways nature never meant for it to do.

So I rear back, raise a fist, and do it again.

And again.

And again.

One punch after the other. Months of fury condensing all this into one moment where Deacon Carrington finally, finally gets what”s coming to him.

We go tumbling to the ground. I”m on him as he tries to shield himself from my fists—but there”s no stopping me and no end to my bloodlust. Even when he manages to get in a weak elbow on me, I grin with blood on my teeth.

”Cute.”

I spit in his face, adding insult to injury, then follow it up with a vicious head butt. I damn near see stars, but I don”t stop.

Not even when I hear her.

”Weston! Weston, you”re going to kill him!”

But that”s exactly what I want, isn”t it?

Why does a man like this deserve to live? Someone who would put the life of a woman and an unborn child in jeopardy—and for what? Bitterness over money? Not getting everything he wanted, even though he already has more than most of us ever will?

No, this piece of shit doesn”t deserve to leave here alive.

”Weston!”

No. I can”t stop. Not now.

”Weston!”

Fine. One more. If she begs once more?—

”WESTON!”

It”s not the call of my name—it”s how my name is called that stops me. Firm, but with fear in it.

I look up.

Hunter’s holding Renee back. She”s got her eyes on me, wide and full of tears. I can”t do this. Not in front of her and our baby. Not when she asks me like that.

I tear my eyes away from her and glare down at Deacon. ”You better thank your lucky stars that Renee is a better person than I am, because I don”t have a damn problem finishing this.”

I shove myself off the ground, raining blood from my split chin. He’s a groaning, spluttering mess beneath me, too ruined to even form words.

I turn my back on the bastard and make my way to Renee. As soon as I’m close enough, she tears free of Hunter and runs to me.

I pull her trembling body to mine, shielding her from anything and everything that isn”t me. ”I”m sorry,” I whisper into the velvety softness of her hair. ”But I’ve got you now.”

Her arms wrap around me. Tight, like she”s afraid to let me go. She buries her face in my chest. I think I hear a sob, muffled by my shirt.

And I hold her. The night is quiet now, save for Deacon’s moans.

And I hold her. My heart is stilling now, save for where it beats for her.

And I hold her. Because I thought for a moment there I’d never get to do it again.

”Cops on the way,” Hunter says at last. ”Decker just called ‘em. Ambulance, too, just in case.” He laughs. ”Your hard-headed ass will be fine. But I think Deacon might actually need it.”

I kiss the top of Renee”s head. It”s over. Finally, it’s all fucking?—

”Weston!”

I startle, looking up. It’s a blur of motion. Dark limbs, twisting, yelling, gravel crunching, the flash of metal raised high?—

I move, throwing Renee behind me as I?—

More motion, another vague blur from my side, darting over to?—

“Fuck.”

Deacon withdraws his hand from Hunter’s midsection. I don’t even know where my best friend came from, but somehow, he’s in between me and the Carrington bastard. He’s doubled over and the breath is wheezing out of his lungs in a sickening, moaning whistle that I don’t like at all.

And when the moonlight catches Deacon’s hand, I see why.

He’s holding a knife.

And it’s soaked with Hunter’s blood.

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