His finger moves to the trigger.
Time stops.
I can see everything. The sweat on his brow. The white of his knuckles. The slight tremble in the barrel tells me he hasn’t fully committed. That somewhere inside the man pointing a shotgun at his brother’s chest, there’s a boy who rode horses and ate ice cream at the diner with me.
That boy is losing.
And then from inside the house…
A gunshot.
Beau’s head snaps toward the sound, and the shotgun drops an inch.
An inch is all I need.
I close the distance in two strides, grab the barrel with both hands, and wrench it sideways. The stock cracks against my forearm, and pain detonates through my wrist, but I don’t let go. I twist. He fights. The gun goes off, and the blast tears into the porch railing six inches from Jett’s head. Wood splinters explode into the air.
“Jesus fuck!” Jett dives.
I rip the shotgun from Beau’s hands and toss it behind me. It clatters across the gravel. Beau staggers back, and I punch him in the gut so hard he falls to the ground, and I stamp on his stomach.
My men are already moving in, Drago taking the lead.
I look down at Beau; he’s got no fucking remorse. Nothing to say for himself.
“You ain’t no brother of mine,” I hiss, and I pull out the blade from my pocket and drag it across his throat. “You don’t deserve the blood that flows through your veins.”
He claws at his neck as I release his stomach, but Ace is right there, taking over my spot, making slices across his body to drain him.
“Fuck you,” Ace spits right at Beau’s face.
Ace looks to me, eyes full of heartbreak. We’re letting our own brother bleed out on the concrete.
“Hunter, get in here!” Jett calls out from the front door.
Fuck.
“I’ll make sure he dies,” Ace says coldly.
I don’t respond. I run.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
LOLA
“You fucking bitch!”Reese’s voice tears through the room. He’s on his back, hands clamped over his stomach, blood flowing between his fingers. “You shot me!”
He writhes on the floor, his face contorted into something between agony and disbelief. Like he still can’t process that the woman he called a gold-digging whore just put a bullet in him.
The gun is still in my hand. My fingers are locked around it. I don’t think I could let go if I tried.
I crawl.
Every movement is an earthquake inside my body. My arms tremble. My knees scrape against the hardwood. The gash on my temple is pulsing and warm, and I can feel blood running down my face and dripping off my jaw.
The door. I need to get to the door.
“Help!” I shout. Or try to.