Delayed by Nathan Kingsly (the false prince TXT) 📗

into black. Dizzy, I lose purchase on the bed. I dig my fingers into the fibers of the rug, determined to stay upright. Squeezing my eyes shut to focus, I know I am close to the edge. Like a catapult, I move in the direction of where the bed is located, and relief hits as it cushions my upper body.

Everything is so hazy as if looking through a pinprick. Sweat drenches me as I force myself not to pass out. My hand grabs hold of the nearest shape. It’s Brian’s leg. I know it’s his because even blinded, I know what Emma feels like under my hand. My grip tightens, and I pull with what strength I have left. He grunts, and I can see his body twisting. Squinting, I try to focus. It helps but not enough to see his other foot coming towards my face until it’s too late. I grunt as the force of it lands me on my back. I’m stunned, all I can see is white, and I realize it’s the ceiling.

“NO! STOP! GET OFF ME!” Emma’s screams come back to my ears like bullets. Shaking my head, I clear it as best I can before I sit up. The world spins. Twisting, I throw up the lunch we had before we got to this hell. Wiping the spittle off my chin, I get on all fours, not trusting my legs, and move again.

Just as I reach for the bed, I’m jerked back, with an arm across my throat, bringing me to my knees—the cold of the gun against my pounding temple. The pain of it sharp; it helps clear part of the haze even though I can feel the beating of my heart in all the places I ache. My hands come up to rip Ger off of me, my stomach roiling from touching him at all, but his words are in my ear, co-mingling with his evil cackle as each is spoken.

“Oh, she’s a fighter. She’ll give him a run for his prize.”

“It’s not his to win,” I spit, fighting for air around his grip.

“It took you forever to find her again, and it’s been sweet to know that I would steal your second chance from you. She will never forgive you; she’ll resent you even six feet under.” He laughs, his breath a spicy peppermint in my nose.

“HELP ME!” Her pleas take the rest of the air out of my lungs. I deserve to die here and now for what I’ve allowed to happen. I’m a fucking idiot. If we, by some miracle, make it out of this alive, I will never leave her side again. Not even to check a room.

Brian’s got her shirt up around her neck, her yoga pants in his meaty grip. Tears stream down her cheeks from closed, tight eyes. She's kicking out, and pushing at his hands as best she can.

Hurling my forearm into Ger’s groin, then my elbow into his stomach, there’s a whoosh of air that comes from him, and his grip loosens. Breaking free, I stagger towards the bed and pitch myself towards Brian. We crash against the wall and hit the floor rolling and grappling for purchase. His first hit is to my jaw, and I get a good one when I hear his nose crack under my fist. He gets another good one in on my eye before I get him on his back. My hands go around his neck, his face reddening with every second that ticks by. My hands bleed from scratches before he brings a hand up to push my face away.

With my face forced up, I see that the idiot left the gun on the side table. Unwrapping my fingers from his neck, I bash him in the face with a fist, leaving him dazed enough to reach up and grab the gun. He’s still shaking his head to clear it when I press it to his forehead.

For an instant, it’s his gaze that catches and holds me there. He had been my friend. The only person I confided in at all for the years I’d known him. We’d eaten pizza, watched football, and even exchanged a few stories after one too many beers.

His mouth twists into a smile, "I knew you were weak." His hand reaches for the gun, and I know if he gets it from me, Emma will never make it out alive.

I pull the trigger.

The familiar acrid bite assaults my nostrils, my body accustomed to the shock as it’s done countless times at the shooting range, but this isn’t a paper target. His expression bleeds from his face as it relaxes in death.

My ears are still clearing from the shot, but I can hear Emma whimper off to my right. Stupidly, I expect her to still be on the bed, but I find Ger has used the scuffle to his advantage.

She’s in his arms again, covered, but the gun directed at her head, and him scowling deep, the lines of his years carved in his face. “Drop the fucking gun, Liam.”

I work to get to my feet. The sound of the hammer of a gun clicks in my ears before the shot goes off. Gasping, I hit the wall behind me and slid down it. My free hand goes to my shoulder, and I look up to see the gun back at Emma’s temple. “I said drop the gun. My next shot will be much deadlier and through Emma’s head.”

“Give me a Goddamn second.” Letting go of my shoulder, I grab the gun in my usable hand and slide it across the floor away from me, now painted red. My head thuds against the wall as I look up at them again, my breaths heavy as I work to compartmentalize the pain. My stomach roils as the metallic smell of copper reminds me that my legs are tangled with those of a dead man.

I have to stay conscious. I need to find a