Page 152 of Dirty Hit
I’ve had a knife on me since I was fifteen; tonight is no exception. It’s tucked at the small of my back, under my hoodie at all times. My fingers find the hilt now without thinking, and I slide it free in one smooth motion, flipping it in my grip as I rise.
She’s still talking when the blade hits home.
It meets resistance—muscle, and bone, and all the things I don’t think about when I do this to people who aren’t my mother. I don’t focus on the details. I focus on the handle in my palm and the way it stops when I’ve gone deep enough to make a point.
Her breath leaves her in a shocked rush.
For the first time in my life, she looks genuinely surprised. Her hands come up to my shoulders, not to push me away, but to clutch, fingers digging in. She looks down at the knife between us, then back up at my face, eyes wide.
“Domenyk,” she whispers.
“I’m done,” I say, voice calm in a way that feels terrifying even to me. “With you. With this. With your fucking choices.”
She laughs, a wet, disbelieving sound that catches in her throat. Her grip tightens, then loosens, and for a brief moment, I consider holding her up. Then I step back, letting gravity and the weight of everything she’s done pull her down.
Behind me, Brendon sputters, another rough cough tearing out of him.
I don’t look away from her as she hits the floor. Her eyes search my face, pride and horror twisted together.
“You stupid boy,” she whispers. “You’ve ruined… everything.”
I shake my head, the rage in my chest finally cooling into clarity. “No. I just killed the thing that’s been ruiningmemy whole fucking life.”
Her mouth opens, but no words come out this time. “I choose him,” I say, more to myself than to her. “I choose me. I’m done being your weapon.”
Her eyes roll toward the ceiling, unfocused, and whatever she was going to say dies on her lips. I don’t watch her die. I’ve watched enough people die because of her, and I am fucking done adding to that highlight reel for free.
I turn my back on her, and head for the couch, my hands already reaching for the only thing that matters—and it sure as fuck isn’t the woman bleeding out on my floor.
But my brain is already racing through how the fuck I’m going to keep all of us alive now that the queen is off the board.
Dominic
Brendonletsoutalow sound, a weak little exhale that barely qualifies as a whimper, and I drop to my knees beside the couch, shoving both hands back over the wound at his side. His skin is clammy under my palms, the blood still warm, but slowing; which isn’t the comfort it should be. His breaths come in shallow pulls, lips parted, lashes fluttering like he’s half stuck somewhere he can’t claw his way out of.
“I’ve got you,” I say, and this time, it’s not just a promise. “I’ve got you. Don’t you dare leave me now. Not after I did all of this.”
His mouth trembles like he’s trying to smile, even now.
“Stay with me, please,” I mutter, leaning over him, pressing down. “You’re not allowed to tap out on me, Little Sin. You hear me? Not tonight. Not ever.”
He doesn’t answer, but his chest rises, just enough. That’s all I need. I clamp down on the wound and work through a plan in my head. My phone is in my back pocket—somehow, miraculously, still there. I unlock it with bloody fingers, andcall the only person who knows how to make this kind of mess disappear without flinching.
“Seth,” I say, when he picks up on the second ring, and starts with some lazy bullshit greeting. “I need a cleanup. My place. Now.”
There is a beat of silence as his brain registers that I never call him in crisis mode unless someone is already dead. “How bad?” he asks, voice dropping.
“The worst kind,” I say. “My mother. Remove any trace she was ever in my house, set up a scene, and sweep for trackers. Car, bike, cottage, even Brendon’s place. I want every eye she had on me gone by sunrise. I’ll pay double.”
Another beat, then a low whistle. “Christ, Dom. You finally did it.”
“Yeah,” I bite out. “And if you don’t get here fast, I’m going to lose the only good thing that came out of any of this. I’m taking him to the hospital. Handle the rest.”
“I’ve got you, mate,” he says, and for once, I let myself trust that. “Go.”
I hang up, shove the phone back in my pocket, and turn all my focus back to Brendon. He’s slipping; I can feel it. There’s no time to wait for an ambulance out here. They’d get lost on the back road, they’d waste minutes I don’t have, they’d ask questions I don’t want to answer. I need him in a trauma bay five minutes ago.
“Sorry, baby,” I mutter, sliding one arm under his shoulders, the other under his knees. He lets out another broken sound when I lift him, his head lolling against my chest, and I grit my teeth. “I know. I know. I’ve got you.”
