Page 38 of Owen (Blue Team #1)

I had no idea blood was so warm.

I’d seen it, I’d felt it leak from my nose, I’d tasted it, but I’d never known how warm and sticky it was when it poured out.

When it puddled.

Now I knew.

I looked down at my hands and they were still covered in blood.

So much blood the coppery smell filled the room, it coated the floor, I could see the smears my knees left, my handprints from where I’d crawled through it.

Crawled, but not far.

“I hate you,” I whispered.

Wilco didn’t answer.

He’d never answer again. The letter opener I’d used to stab him was still lodged deep in his mangled throat.

It wasn’t as easy as the movies made it look.

It took force to jab a pointed instrument into flesh.

It took more than one attempt to hit the right spot.

Add in a man double my size, fighting, it was a lot harder than I’d thought it would be.

And so much more blood .

It sprayed, it flowed, it pooled.

The room looked like a crime scene. It was a crime scene now.

I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs and I scrambled to stand, my bare feet not finding purchase in the slippery wet all around me.

The door flung open and it was too late.

Franco took in the scene. His nasty, hate-filled eyes came to me, then he smiled when he saw my very dead uncle on his back, his eyes still open and a look of shock still on his face.

Shocked I’d fought back. Shocked I’d spoken.

Shocked I had it in me to hit him back when he slapped the shit out of me— again .

But more than anything he was shocked when I reached under the pillow for the letter opener I’d found only minutes before he’d opened the door and I stabbed him in his stomach before I took the letter opener to his throat.

Over and over I stuck him as hard as I could until he collapsed and I fell on top of him. Utterly exhausted from the exertion.

So tired.

So much blood.

So very dead.

“For a dumb bitch, you made this next part easier.” Franco barked a laugh. “One less thing to do before we leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“What’d you say?”

“I said,” I cleared my throat and wished I could get to my feet but I knew it was useless. I’d have to crawl to the dresser to hoist myself up and there was no way I was crawling anywhere in front of Franco. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“I see you think you have a say, bitch, but you don’t. What was Wilco’s is now mine. You’re mine. Everything he had is mine. Now get the fuck up, we’re leaving. ”

“No,” I said with all the bravado I could muster.

I was in trouble, big trouble. By killing Wilco I’d handed Franco the keys to the kingdom. I had no fight left in me, but I wasn’t going with him. Not anywhere. I was staying in this room until Owen found me. It was my only hope.

I’d planned on taking out Franco first, but as per my normal luck—which was to say, no luck whatsoever—Wilco had come up to collect me.

The plane was ready. An aircraft I was not getting on.

I would die in this room before I was whored out.

I would kill before I was forced to live another second of the life I’d escaped.

“Sarah—”

“My goddamn name is Natasha,” I spat. “And listen to me, Franco, I’m not going anywhere with you. Your best chance at surviving is to get gone and do it quickly.”

“Get gone? You think because you did me a favor and took out the old man, I’m not claiming my prize, then you’re fucking stupider than your uncle said you were.”

Of course Wilco thought I was stupid. All women were stupid. Pussy was stupid .

Fuck him and fuck Franco.

“I’m not a prize and I’m sure as hell not yours.”

“I see you think that asshole’s coming for you, but your uncle made sure when he and his friends got to Chicago…” Franco paused, smiled, and winked. “ Kaboom .”

Kaboom?

What did that mean?

“There would be nothing left of him but ash.”

Would Owen go to Chicago to look for me? That was where I told him I was going, where I told Tex. No, no way. Tex would know. I left the phone on, he’d trace it and tell Owen.

He was coming. I knew he was.

Time. I just needed to give Owen more time .

We’ve got your back, you’re covered, I promise. Owen had said that to me once. He also promised he was coming for me.

He’d come. I knew it.

“Franco!” someone shouted from the hallway. “We’ve got company.”

My heart rate spiked and hope bloomed.

Please let it be Owen and the guys. Please let it be Owen .

Unfortunately, as I was chanting my mantra I wasn’t paying enough attention to Franco.

He was across the room fast, his hand wrapped around my bicep faster.

I dug my heels in and leaned back, making it so Franco was dragging me through the blood.

His feet slipped but he quickly recovered and continued to yank.

I couldn’t let him take me out of this room. I knew once he got me to my feet he’d use me as a shield.

I needed Franco off-balance, it was the only way. With every last bit of energy I had, I lobbed my body to the side. Franco pitched, and when I had my chance I twisted and kicked the back of his knees, making them buckle. From there everything was a haze of fury.

I attacked.

I punched, kicked, struggled, and together we rolled in the blood. This was unlike the movies, too. Two minutes of fighting for your life felt like an eternity. My muscles screamed in protest. My body ached and I felt every blow Franco landed.

I’d done my best.

I’d fought hard.

But I was no match for a two-hundred-pound man. He easily pinned me under him.

“Fucking cunt,” he rasped and I was happy to see I’d at least tore a gash in his lip. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“You might. But I’d rather die than—”

I didn’t get to finish my badass declaration because Franco was gone. As in gone—up off of me and sailing in the air until I heard a loud bang then a second crash.

Then all my words simply died because Owen was standing there. Face like thunder. Eyes not on me but the blood in the room. And when his gaze came to mine it was glacial.

“Jesus, fuck!” he roared.

“I’m okay,” I squeaked.

“Jesus, fucking Christ.”

An artic chill washed over me. Perhaps he didn’t hear me.

“I’m okay, Owen. None of it’s mine.”

“Owen?”

I jolted and scrambled back when I heard a voice I didn’t know.

“It’s all good, Natasha. All good,” the man said.

I didn’t spare a glance at the man speaking. I only had eyes for the man stalking toward me. Owen bent down and scooped me into his arms. And try as I might, I couldn’t hold back the cry of pain as Owen straightened.

He said nothing, but he didn’t need to. The hard set of his jaw said more than a million words.

He walked down the stairs, through the foyer, and out the front door. Gabe met us there, took me in, and his eyes flashed with something so scary I buried my head in Owen’s neck. I knew what he saw. I knew because I could taste Wilco’s blood—I’d rolled in it. I had it all over me.

Always dirty.

My body bucked and that hurt, too. And as the tears fell, tiny rivers of blood washed down my cheeks.

“Baby.”

The tortured sound from Owen only made me sob harder.

Not because I’d killed Wilco. Not because I was covered in a warm, sticky mess. Not because I was right then, quite literally covered in Pollaski stench .

I didn’t care about any of that.

All I could think about was this was the third time Owen had rescued me.

The first time he’d carried me in Alaska, saving me from a lifetime of misery, I had a bloody gash on my forehead.

The second time he’d carried me out of a building after untying me from a chair, my childhood friend dead on the floor, my face battered, after saving my life.

This time he carried me to safety after I’d killed a man.

All three times he’d done it gently. All three times he’d risked his life to save mine.

“I’m free,” I mumbled.

Owen grunted and kept walking.

“Straight to my soul,” I said louder.

“Fucking Christ.”

His words were harsh but his squeeze was gentle.

I smiled against his neck.

He was mad at me but I knew he loved me straight to his soul, too.

I didn’t need him to say it. I was in his arms surrounded by it.

I was free to live my dream.