Page 49 of DFF: Delicate Freakin’ Flower (Family Ties #5)

Webb’s kiss still burned on my cheek, and his words— “I love you”—echoed in my skull, competing with the thumping of my heart.

Suddenly, the world went quiet. Too quiet.

I leaned forward slightly, every nerve in my body alive and straining.

Something was coming, and this time, I knew it wasn’t a raccoon.

Webb had told me to stay down, to protect my head, and let them handle everything.

It was the smart thing to do—the safe thing.

But sitting here, curled up on these damn cushions while the chaos outside ramped up like a warzone, was eating me alive.

I wasn’t helpless. I was bruised, stitched, sore, and maybe half-broken, but I wasn’t powerless.

I stared at the door, heart pounding. My hands tightened around Tinkerbell’s grip. I wasn’t sure if it was courage or stupidity fueling me, but I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. Not while they were out there risking everything.

I shifted forward and winced. Every movement tugged at healing muscles, and my ribs throbbed with sharp protest as my cast dragged heavily across the floor. Still, I pressed on—slowly, silently—until I reached the cabin door.

The wooden storage box sat just to the side.

I paused, hesitating for a moment before lifting the lid.

Inside were the dusty, dented cans of expired food I’d set aside earlier.

I reached in and grabbed two tins of tuna, stuffing them into the front pocket of my hoodie.

Maybe they’d be useful as bait, a distraction, or, if I was desperate, a projectile to the face.

I eased the door open just wide enough to slip through.

The night air hit my face like a slap—cool and damp, thick with the scent of wet leaves and tension. A distant shout echoed somewhere to the east, followed by the unmistakable metallic clink of something being dropped or triggered. I couldn’t tell which.

My breathing quickened as I eased down the steps, dragging myself inch by agonizing inch across the damp grass.

My casted leg caught on a stone, and I nearly cried out, biting down hard on my lip to silence it.

The world around me had changed. It wasn’t chaotic anymore—it was still like the storm had moved from the outside into the eyes of the men who were still standing.

That terrified me more than the shouting ever had.

The bushes were only ten feet away, but it felt like a mile. Every movement sent new flares of pain through my side and head, but I kept going. I had to. I pressed forward until I slipped beneath the branches, leaves brushing against my arms as I curled myself low into the shadows.

I was shaking. Not just from pain or the cold—but from fear, anger, and this gnawing guilt that if anyone out there got hurt, it would be because of me.

But beneath the fear was a burning edge of fury. How dare Clayton Barris bring this to us—this violence, this chaos, and this fight. How dare he think I’d just be cornered and caged like I didn’t know how to bite back. I was done running. Done being the girl hidden behind others.

I adjusted my grip on Tinkerbell and glanced toward the cabin.

The door still hung open slightly, the porch lamp flickering faintly in the breeze.

Somewhere out there, footsteps crunched through the brush.

Slow and measured, getting closer to where I was.

I didn’t know who it was and if they’d find me first or if I’d have to make the first move. But I was ready, even if it killed me.

The sound of footsteps crunched through the underbrush, drawing closer.

I held my breath and pressed myself deeper into the damp ground beneath the bush, doing everything I could to stay still.

My heart thudded against my ribs, the pressure behind my eyes building with each second the boots crept nearer.

They stopped just inches from my hiding place.

Holding my breath, I scanned the person's body, noting the combat boots, tactical vest, and helmet. The guy was dressed head-to-toe like a soldier, but the kind you’d expect to see at a surplus store fashion show rather than on an actual battlefield.

He even had sunglasses perched on his helmet at night .

The absurdity of it nearly made me forget the danger—until something cold and smooth brushed against the back of my hand. My breath hitched, heart leaping into my throat, and I immediately conjured the worst. Gator, snake, or some hell-beast of the bayou come to finish what Barris started.

But when I turned my head just enough to see what it was, relief surged through me. It wasn’t a reptile, it was Malcolm.

My cousin’s face appeared through the leaves like some mischievous cryptid, smudged with mud and wide-eyed with excitement.

He spotted the guy pacing past us and, without a word, pointed at him and made the most theatrical wanking gesture I’d ever seen.

I slapped a hand over my mouth to stop the laugh that threatened to explode out of me.

The soldier wannabe took another step forward, unaware he was inches from disaster. His foot caught a wire—followed by a sharp snap, then a brief, loaded silence.

A plastic tub tipped from above, dousing him in something murky and foul that hit with a wet thud. He gasped, sputtered, and then let out a sharp, startled scream as a second trap went off, sealing his humiliation.

A cloud of feathers, dried leaves, and—oh God—something else rained down over him. The smell hit me like a punch in the face. It was wet and rank. Almost sweet but in that horrifying, rotting way that turned your stomach inside out.

I gagged and clamped both hands over my nose and mouth. Malcolm yanked his collar up and leaned closer, whispering through the fabric, “That one was my idea.”

The man on the ground howled like he was being tortured as he rolled through the leaves, smearing the gunk deeper into his clothes.

He flailed wildly, feathers sticking to his face and leaves tangled in his straps.

His screams dissolved into heaving gasps and curses, and I could feel Malcolm shaking with silent laughter beside me.

Eventually, the guy staggered to his feet—filthy, dripping, and smelling like something that had died twice—and bolted into the trees, stumbling like he couldn’t get away from himself fast enough.

Malcolm turned to me, still grinning. “It was some roadkill I picked up on the way here mixed in some swamp water. I may have also added a couple other...found items .”

I stared at him in horror. “Who picks up roadkill and random crap, just in case?”

Without missing a beat, he replied, “Someone who wants to protect his baby cousin from assholes.”

“You’re insane.”

He shrugged, totally unbothered. “I play dirty.”

And honestly, thank God he did. Because in this kind of fight, “dirty” just might be our best shot at survival.