Page 87 of Deathmarch

Zane pushed her against the stone wall at her back, capturing her right wrist in a bruising grip.

“Stop it, Zane.”

She punched his arm with her left hand, but his coat took the brunt of the hit and he didn’t even wince. Instead, he grabbed her other wrist too and slammed it against the hard stones.

“You’re hurting me.” She twisted in his grip in a futile attempt to break free. And she wasn’t steady enough on her feet to kick the flipping idiot, dagnabbit.

She fought to catch her breath. “Let’s talk about this.”

He yanked her away from the wall and dragged her along. “Damn right. You and I are going to have a long talk. If you want me to forgive you, it’s going to take a lot of apologizing on your part.”

He was either that drunk or that crazy. Neither bode well for her, so she fought him, but she only hurt her wrist more and then her ankle when she stumbled.

“Please, Zane.” She stopped fighting. If she damaged herself, for sure she wouldn’t be able to get away. “Stalking is one thing. This is kidnapping. Let’s talk here. Nobody’s home. Let’s go upstairs.”

She knew exactly where Harper kept his kitchen knives.

“Shut up.” Zane yanked her forward and slammed her against the side of the bread truck, crushed her against the painted panel, then reached around her to grab her cell phone from her back pocket.

Before she could protest, he tossed the phone to the ground at his feet and ground it under his bootheel.

Dread crawled up her spine as the sudden understanding that she was in serious trouble dawned on her. She’d never seen him this drunk, or this mad.

“Let’s go,” he said through gritted teeth, eyes burning with anger as he dragged her to his SUV behind the truck. You’re done with this shithole.”

“Zane!” Allie dug in. “I’m not leaving with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

She’d just sucked in breath for a good scream but pain exploded in her face, and she couldn’t make any sound at all. She could barely breathe as blood trickled from her lip.

He’d backhanded her over her mouth. Hard.

He didn’t slow, didn’t check to see if she was okay. Even as she struggled, reeling from the sudden escalation of violence, he was yanking the car door open, brimming with rage and manic determination.

He was going to shove her in there, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Because she hadn’t thought he would go this far. Oh God, how stupid, stupid, stupid had she been? This was exactly how every victim became a statistic.

“Help!” Allie called out, but there was nobody in the parking lot, nobody to hear, and she was breathless with sudden panic, her voice too weak.

She gasped for air as she fought, even while she knew she wasn’t strong enough to break free.

He’s going to take me. The thought slammed into her like a punch in the face.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The pub’s parking lot stood between Finnegan’s and the old farmhouse where Rose and Sean Finnegan lived. Allie watched as, behind Zane, Rose slipped out the back door of her home with a cast-iron frying pan in her hand. She had a fierce concentration on her face, her fingers grabbing the handle tight enough to turn her knuckles white. She wore an apron and house slippers, could have been anyone’s sweet grandma, except for the steel in her eyes that clearly identified her as a woman not to be messed with, a woman who wasn’t holding that frying pan with scrambled eggs in mind.

Allie snapped her gaze back to Zane so she wouldn’t give away Rose’s presence.

“Just give me a sec,” she begged to hold Zane’s attention. “I’m dizzy. I have a concussion. You shouldn’t have hit me.”

“It’s your own damn fault.” He shoved her toward his SUV. “I asked you nicely, but you had to make this difficult for yourself.”

“Wait! Zane…” She braced against the doorframe.

She couldn’t stand on her bad foot, not with her full body weight, so she stood on the other one and lifted her right leg. Nothing wrong with her knee, and she had just the place for it.

She nailed the bastard in the balls, even as she shoved him back, close enough for Rose to swing the cast-iron skillet like a tennis racket at the back of his head.

Clang!