Page 33 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)
Clara
I found beef jerky in the office, but coaxing Prince Fluffington into the bag while there’s a legit sword fight happening across the room isn’t going well.
I can’t fight. God, I wish I could, but all I can do is to be ready to run when RJ gets the upper hand. Which he’s going to do. There’s no other choice.
So, I’ve pulled on my clothes, leaving my coat open.
I’m sweating from a myriad of activities, stress included.
I line up RJ’s stuff so he can just step into his clothes, remembering how the firefighters set up their gear when I toured the firehouse as a kid.
Does it work for normal people? No idea. But it’s all I can think to do.
There’s a grunt and a clatter, and I twist to the fight, fear driving my body as RJ’s pinned to the ground, the man laughing, his senseless chatter fuzzy in my ears. Dashing to the pile of swords on the floor, I snag one, and not knowing what else to do, sprint toward the fight.
A streak of gray beats me to it, though.
Prince Fluffington bounds onto the man’s back, a yowl sounding as he digs his claws into the man’s skin, his sweatshirt not enough of a barrier for the twenty-pound feline.
The man yells, but doesn’t let go of RJ, his training keeping him from panicking.
His focus stays on RJ, his mouth moving but none of his words making it to my brain as I sneak up behind him.
The crack of the sword against the back of his head sounds so much like a bat snapping against a baseball that I yelp, flinging the sword to the side.
The man collapses, Prince Fluffington hopping off the guy without coaxing, trotting across the mats and slinking to where I dropped the jerky. And suddenly, I’m wondering why I didn’t use the cheese in RJ’s coat pocket to coax the cat into the bag.
My brain fuzzy with failed logic, I can’t control my body, and it rebels.
I vomit, the wood of the sword beside me wet and shiny, the blood leaking out of the back of the guy’s head turning into a pool of red on the surrounding ground.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, not able to turn away from what I just did, my mouth sour and my stomach clenching. “Is he dead?”
RJ tugs me back from the growing pool of blood, but doesn’t answer, collecting the swords from the floor.
He brings them to the side of the mat, wiping them down with his t-shirt before pulling it on, and I vomit again, unable to comprehend wearing a bloody shirt.
Wearing the blood of our enemy. I choke on a hysterical laugh as he quickly adds the rest of his clothes, my stomach turning as my mind swirls.
Zipping the cat into the bag, he picks something off the ground and locks it somehow, then disappears. And still, the blood on the ground expands. Head wounds bleed a lot, right? He can’t be dead, can he?
I vaguely hear RJ cleaning up, and I want to help, but I’m frozen, saliva pooling in my mouth, my hearing still fuzzy. Then RJ’s in front of me, his warm hands cradling my icy cheeks. “Sugar, I need your eyes on me. Can I have them?”
Shifting my gaze to his is the hardest thing I’ve done so far today, but I manage it.
“There you are. We need to go. Are you good to walk?”
I nod, but I can’t move until he has all three bags slung over his shoulders, and he tugs me behind him, our bare hands warm where they touch, but painfully cold when the wind coats them.
The pain keeps me moving, trusting RJ will get us to the house in time.
Only one thought is cycling through my mind, though, repeating, screaming, whispering, unending, brutal.
Did I just kill a man?