“He dies,” my father says flatly, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that tells me he’s going to enjoy this. “That’s non-negotiable, Emma. I’m taking you home.”
Everything happens at once.
Leo’s face twists with rage and he’s bringing his guns up, shouting something I can’t hear over the blood rushing in my ears. He’s probably telling me to get down, to move, to let him handle this.
Not happening.
My father is shouting too, ordering his man to get me out of here and drag me away by force if necessary.
Also not happening.
The man’s hand closes around my arm, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises and he yanks me hard enough to nearly pull me off my feet, trying to drag me backward, away from Leo, toward the door.
Away from the man I love.
And something in me just…snaps.
All the fear, all the rage, all the desperate love I’ve been holding in for weeks—it all explodes outward in a single moment of pure instinct, coming back from the years of self-defense classes I was forced to take when I was a child and teenager.
“Every woman should know how to defend herself,” Dad had said, standing in the dojo watching me practice. “Especially a Brennan. You’re a target, Emma. Act like it.”
Thanks for the lesson, Dad. It’s coming in real handy right now.
I plant my left foot for balance and drive my right heel backhardright into the man’s balls, using my entire weight. I channel all my fury and fear into that single strike.
The impact is solid and immensely satisfying. The man makes a high-pitched strangled sound I’ve never heard a human make before. It’s like all the air has been punched out of him at once.
His grip on my arm releases instantly and hands go to his crotch, and he goes down like a sack of bricks, literally crumpling to the marble floor, curling into himself, gasping and wheezing.
“Don’t youeverfucking touch me,” I snarl. Connor Brennan’s daughter doesn’t get grabbed and shedefinitelydoesn’t get manhandled by anyone who wants to keep their balls intact.
The man on the floor is still gasping, tears streaming down his face, with his hands between his legs. I should probably feel bad about that.
I don’t.
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.
Then before anyone can react I step in front of Leo, making myself a human shield between him and the gun pointed at his head. I don’t think about it until I’m standing with my back to Leo’s chest, my arms spread wide, making myself as big a target as possible.
Making it impossible for my father to shoot Leo without shooting me first.
Behind me, Leo makes a strangled and horrified sound, like someone just tore a piece of him out of his body.
“Emma,no!” His hands grab my shoulders, grip tight, trying to pull me out of the way. “What are you—Emma, move!Move!”
But I dig my heels in—literally, pressing them into the marble floor for traction—and refuse to budge. I’m not as strong as Leo, but I have leverage and stubbornness on my side.
“Let me go, Leo.” I’m surprised at how calm I sound, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing I’m doing. “I’m not moving.”
“Emma,please—” His voice cracks and I can feel him shaking behind me, his hands tight on my shoulders, his chest pressed against my back. His ragged gasps are at my ear. “Please don’t do this; I’m begging you, just move out of the way and let me?—”
“No,” I say firmly.
His grip on my shoulders tightens and for a second I think he’s going to physically lift me and move me aside. He’s strong enough and could do it easily. But he doesn’t. He’s frozen, caught between the instinct to protect me and the reality that moving me would put me in danger from my father’s gun.
I can practicallyfeelthe war raging inside him. The fury at me for putting myself at risk. The terror that my father might actually shoot. The desperate, overwhelming need to keep me safe warring with the reality that the only way to do that is to let me stay exactly where I am.
I look at my father and the gun that’s wavering now, pointing at me—at us—at the space where his daughter is standing in front of the man he wants to kill.