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“Piotyr?” A burly man comes in, a semiautomatic slung over his shoulder. “Can I have a word?”

O’Sullivan looks me up and down. “Sure.” And he turns and walks away with the big guy.

I don’t know why I do it.

But I want to see Callahan again. I want to save him. I want to feel his lips on mine, his arms around me. I want his ire and his amusement, to feel his passion and the soft touches he saves just for me. I want to watch him with Arnold, and even with Clawzilla, whom I think he’s growing fond of even though he’d never admit it.

I want to win his heart.

And for that I have to get out of here and keep him safe.

So I grab one of the knives and shove it in the pocket of my dress.

Then I square my shoulders and walk toward the staircase.

At that exact moment the burly guy leaves and O’Sullivan spins around to face me. “What the hell are you doing?”

My throat goes dry. “Let me go.”

“No.”

He pulls his gun. “Me big man with gun; you, idiotic and pathetic pussy on legs.”

Suddenly, gunfire erupts. When he turns away, I lunge for him, pulling the knife from my pocket, tearing through the delicate material with the sharp blade. When he turns back to me, it’s too late. I plunge the blade into his belly.

He cries out, shoving me backward and I hit the ground, my tailbone cracking against the cold cement floor.

O’Sullivan pulls out the bloody knife and holds a hand against the gaping wound. Glaring at me with eyes of a demon, he points his gun at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, just as an earsplitting crack shatters the air…

And my heart.

THIRTY-ONE

callahan

I shootthe bastard in the chest, just to the right of his heart. The vile fuck was about to shoot my Lucie, so I shot him first.

What I really want to do is kill him, but not yet. He doesn’t deserve for death to come quickly.

He deserves torture and torment. Excruciatingly painful shit.

O’Sullivan stumbles and crashes onto the cement floor.

I drive my foot into him, then stomp on his hand, the satisfying snap of bones reaching my ears as I kick his gun away with my other foot. Then I rush to Lucie, who’s crumpled in a ball.

“Hey, Lucie Joy, love, it’s me. Are you okay?”

I tenderly turn her toward me, every inch of my being brimming with violence and hatred for the fucker behind me. The other men are dead and Seamus will be at the door in another second or so. I spare one quick glance back at Paddy, noting the large red stain soaking the center of his shirt and the discarded bloody knife on the floor.

“Christ, Lucie, did you stab him?”

She looks at me and my blood turns to ice.

Her face is bruised and already swollen. As I wipe away the blood from her nose and a gaping cut on her cheek, I can’t help but think she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

A harsh laugh breaks free. “I don’t fucking care about me.” My gaze goes to her bruised thigh, clearly visible through the rip in her dress. The top of it is ripped, too. “Did the cunt touch you?”