Page 175 of Dirty Hit
“Shit,” I breathe, and move faster, pulse roaring in my ears.
The cottage has that strange, shadowed quality it gets when the moon is the only light. Broken glass glitters on the kitchen floor near the back door, a dark shape bent half through the frame. Another figure is already inside by the time I skid to a stop near the couch, hood up, face shadowed.
Samson lunges, teeth snapping. A boot connects with his side in a brutal kick that sends him yelping and sliding into the table. The sound he makes tears through me worse than the crash of glass.
“Hey!” I shout, instinct overriding fear as I move toward him. “Don’t touch him—”
The second guy is faster than I am. He’s on me in two steps, grabbing my arm, yanking me forward. The phone flies out of my hand and skids across the floor toward the sofa.
“Well, look at this,” he sneers, breath hot and sour in my face. “House isn’t empty after all.”
My free hand curls around his wrist, but he tightens his grip, fingers digging into my skin. Pain flares, and I hiss. “What doyou want?” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady even as panic crawls up my spine. “Take whatever you need and go. Just—leave the dog alone.”
“The dog?” The one near the door laughs, stepping fully inside now that the way is clear. He’s got something long and wooden in his hand—a baseball bat. “Cute. We’re not here for the dog, sweetheart. We’re here for the easy score.” His gaze flicks around the room in quick, practiced sweeps. “Guy like Volkov? Bet he keeps cash around. And that Charger out front’s practically begging me to take her for a spin.”
“I’m not giving you his car,” I say, voice shaking despite my attempt at steel. “You can have whatever cash I’ve got and anything that’s not sentimental, but you’re not touching his Charger.”
The bat guy’s expression shifts, and he grins. “Wrong answer, princess,” he says.
He moves faster than my brain expects from someone who smells like cheap liquor. The bat cracks across the side of my face, not full force, more a backhand with the grip, but it’s enough. Pain explodes across my cheekbone, bright and hot.
The world tilts.
I’m weightless, then my back hits the wall near the couch, and I slide down, legs folding under me. My ears ring. The room doubles, triples, then snaps back into one smeared image. I can taste blood, metallic and thick, in the corner of my mouth.
“You can,” the guy says, voice distant and distorted. “And you will, or this gets ugly.”
You don’t know what ugly looks like, I think hazily, which is probably not the smartest thought to have while concussed on the floor, but my brain goes to the only reference point it has for real monsters, and they’re not standing in my living room right now.
Samson whimpers somewhere to my left. Jericho is nowhere in sight, which is good, because if anyone touches my cat, I might find out I have a little Beast in me, too.
There’s a buzzing in my head that might be adrenaline or the beginning of losing consciousness. Everything feels far away. My phone is a dark rectangle near the couch leg, just out of reach. The guy looms over me, shadow blotting out what little light the moon is giving.
“Try again,” he says, raising his hand like he’s going to hit me again.
I brace for impact; instead, the world explodes in a different way.
There’s a crash, a snarl, the sound of something heavy flying into something heavier. The guy above me jerks backward, eyes going wide, and then he’s tackled from the side by a blur of motion that’s all muscle and rage.
They hit the floor hard. The breath whooshes out of him in a choked grunt. The other intruder swears, raising the bat, but he doesn’t get the chance to swing before Samson throws himself at his leg, teeth bared, barking like the hound of actual Hell.
The ringing in my ears shifts. Under it, through it, I hear another sound.
Dominic’s voice.
“Wrong fucking house,” he snarls, and it’s the voice I’ve heard on the field when he’s calling plays and the voice I’ve heard in my ear when he’s telling me to breathe.
I blink hard and force the blur to clear.
He’s straddling the guy who hit me, knees braced on either side of the bastard’s ribs, fists already red as they drive down again and again into his face. His expression is focused, flat, the way it gets when he’s in his killing headspace and the rest of the world narrows to whatever’s under his hands.
“Dom,” I croak, but it comes out more like a wheeze.
He doesn’t hear me over the sounds of impact—the wet crack of knuckles on bone, the broken noises the guy is starting to make. He’s gone somewhere deep and old, a place built long before me, where violence is language and punishment and prayer all at once.
I try again, louder. “Dominic!”
His head snaps up.
