Page 155 of Hurt

Roland dropped a heel on one such person, ignoring the way his foot made an unpleasant squishing sound as he retracted it from the mess of a crushed human face.

A blade pierced through a man in front of him and he pulled Elijah’s knife from the body as it fell, fisting it in his hand as he swung. The blade slowed his punches down, but it was effective.

Sweat dripped into his eye, and he blinked it out, not daring to take his focus off the fight for the moment it would take to wipe it out. Noah darted in front of him, swinging a Vega by his ponytail to intercept what looked like a garden rake. Using the man as a human shield, he shoved him back into the group of Vegas so Elijah could come up from behind and turn them into pin cushions.

Roland’s elbow swept back, and he heard the satisfying crunch of bone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a Weaver man being overwhelmed. He joined him, using his longer reach to create some space. A glass bottle shattered beside him, and flames roared up his pant leg. Stumbling backward, he hissed in pain as he patted the flames out.

The fire had not done much damage, but his attention had faltered. Not missing an opportunity, he was closed in on. Elijah yelled his name, but his voice was carried away by the cacophony of violence.

His back slammed into the concrete wall of a building, and his concern grew. With nowhere to retreat, he was unable to use momentum to increase his blows. Two quick jabs had bodies falling at his feet. Roland could feel when his brass knuckles crushed bones.

It wasn’t enough. They were getting closer. Something heavy landed on his left shoulder, and he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from howling out in pain. Elijah’s blade was knocked from his hand. Fiery pain raced across his thigh, and he realized there was a blade in the press of bodies.

His breathing was ragged, and his chest ached with rank air filling his lungs. He needed a reprieve.

Another sharp pain on his right hip. Staying here would mean certain death. Bracing his foot on the wall behind him he rammed himself into the closest assailant. There was no finesse in his attempts to break the mob around him. Roland threw elbows, fists, knees, anything to create the smallest break. A crack in their assault so he could breathe.

Roland’s prodigious strength was fading. The adrenalin wasn’t enough, and he was beginning to feel the pain from his injuries.

In quick succession, two Vega Cabals fell. Their blood sprayed the neighbors closest to them. Rather than making a gap, the remaining Vega Cabals closed ranks. They knew the snipers wouldn’t risk hurting Roland if they could get close enough.

An explosion of pain on his back knocked him to his knees. Another hit took his breath away, and he had to fight to keep from falling any farther. Someone grabbed his wrist, and he was horrified to find that he couldn’t break the grip. The light from the fires was blocked out by bodies closing in over him.

Blows landed down on his face and neck, and he couldn’t defend himself with his hands held back, and he could feel his consciousness fading. His final thoughts were not of fear but apologetic. He had failed Willow. Failed his brother. Failed the Weaver Syndicate.

Then his wrist was free, and he could shield his head. The blows stopped, and there was a mad scuffling of feet. Glancing up, he could see the bodies had moved back, and he could finally breathe. The suffocating stench of bodies and blood faded, and he inhaled deeply.

A high-pitched scream cut through the noise, and the remaining bodies surrounding Roland were knocked aside.

Swiping the blood from his eyes, he staggered to his feet and curled his battered fingers into fists.

Flames from a burning SUV blinded him. He could only see the shape of a small person standing in front of him. They were holding a long handle with a chain. At the end of the chain was a wicked-looking spiked ball swinging in an arc around them.

A bright smile flashed in the darkness.

“I saved you this time, Roland.”

Willow was distorted. Coated in mud and blood, only her manic eyes were familiar to Roland. She was awash in carnage.

Roland felt something loosen in his chest, and he limped forward. He wrapped his arms around the small woman and rubbed the dirt from her face.

“Willow.” He breathed, pressing their foreheads together.

And just like that, he could breathe. His light was back. It pierced through his rage and the haze of pain and centered him. Just like she always did.

Willow’s smile was tired, but it was there. She covered the large hands on her face with her own and stroked the split skin of his knuckles.

“This seems excessive, Roland.”

“They had you. I lost my temper.”

Willow breathed a laugh against Roland’s fingers.

“You went through hell for me.”

“I would follow you to hell if it meant I got to hold your hand.”