My head smacks the unforgiving pavement with a sickening thud, my vision blinking in and out as my body violently skids and tumbles along the rough road. There are sharp, distorted sounds echoing all around me, but the thick lining of my helmet muffles the chaos so badly that I can’t hear anything clearly. I know the basic medical rules. I know I shouldn’t remove the lid until I’m absolutely sure my neck isn't broken, but the panic overrides my logic. I need to know what the hell is happening.
My head pounds with a vicious, blinding agony the second I yank the helmet off my skull.
Deafening gunfire instantly erupts around me, the sharp crack of automatic weapons filling the air. Three men are aggressively advancing, pouring lead toward Storm. He’s already down behind his dropped bike, doing everything in his power to hold them off, his weapon firing back.
I frantically search the asphalt for King, my heart hammering against my ribs, but I don’t see him at first through the smoke. Then, something lying motionless near the twisted metal rubble in the middle of the road snags my attention, and the breath catches completely in my throat.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
I desperately try to push myself up to stand, but my legs are shaking, completely refusing to work correctly under the adrenaline shock. I won't let him just lie out there in the open by himself. I can help him. I know I can. I just have to find a way to crawl across the asphalt to get to him without getting hit by the crossfire.
So, I do the only thing that’s possible for me right now. I dig my elbows into the rough asphalt and begin crawling my way over to King. Storm must notice exactly where I’m heading through the chaos, because he kicks his defense into overdrive,doing everything in his power to draw the crossfire away and keep anyone from coming after me.
“Hey, big guy,” I croak, my voice sounding fractured and thin when I finally reach his still body. “I got you. I’m right here.”
There is a terrifying amount of blood pooling beneath him.
This isn’t good. Not at all.
I press my shaking fingers against the side of his neck, trying desperately to find a pulse, but I can’t feel a single thing. Maybe I’m just hitting the wrong spot. I shift my grip, pushing harder against the cold skin, but still, I can’t find anything. No rhythm. No sign of life.
“No, no, no,” I whisper, a cold dread wrapping around my throat.
I move my fingers to his wrist, pressing in, but they keep sliding off.
“Marigold, run!” Storm roars from his cover, but the command cuts off into a harsh, strangled grunt when another gunshot goes off nearby.
I jerk my head over just in time to see Storm drop heavily to one knee, his face contorting in pain.
Through the thick, black plumes of smoke rising from the wrecked bikes and whatever improvised bomb they detonated in the road, steps the literal monster of my nightmares.
“Enough,” Damon roars, his voice carrying that familiar, aristocratic venom that makes my stomach violently turn. “Someone needs to leave a proper message.”
Suddenly, there’s a microscopic movement against my side, and I peer down at King. A fresh stream of dark blood leaks from the corner of his mouth as his eyelids flutter, his lips barely moving as he whispers a single word, “Gun.”
My eyes bounce frantically between King’s failing frame and Damon’s approaching silhouette, trying to figure out exactlyhow many seconds I have left. The blinding headache pounding behind my skull makes it almost impossible to concentrate.
“Take gun,” King croaks, his voice fading fast. “Not... make it.” He lets out a wet, rattling cough, more crimson coating his mouth. “Dying. Protect... you.”
My survival instincts snap into place. I slide my hand blindly under his kutte, feeling along his waist until my fingers firmly grasp the cold, textured metal of his firearm. I slide it smoothly from the holster, flicking off the manual safety with my thumb, and swing the barrel around toward Damon.
Crap.
There’s two of him now.
I blink violently, trying to clear the concussive static from my sight, but it’s absolutely no use.
Still two Damon's standing on the highway.
Fuck.
Literally every girl's worst nightmare.
“Put the gun down, Marigold.” The two Damon's nod seamlessly toward the multiple Storms across the road. “Otherwise, my associates here will fill his body entirely full of holes. I think that would be quite enough of a message for your precious Tomcat, no?”
Through my blurred vision, I think I see Storm fiercely shaking his head no, silently warning me not to lower the weapon. But then the warm, sticky reality of King’s blood soaks completely through the denim of my jeans, reminding me with a brutal punch that I already have one club death on my hands today. I won't be the reason for another.