Who the fuck?
Brooke had to be terrified.
“Evan, I didn’t take anything from you, you narcissistic psychopath.”
Evan? Her fucking piece-of-shit ex?
So much for fear. Brooke was fucking pissed. Pride flared in Curly. Fuck, his woman was amazing. Did she cower and tremor? Fuck no, she stood right up to her tormentor.
The click of a gun cocking had ice forming in Curly’s veins.
Fuck. She better not push him too far.
Showtime.
He stepped out from behind the wall into clear view of Evan and Brooke.
“Curly,” she said on a gasp. Her eyes were wide and frantic with fear despite her strong words and aggressive posture. Fuck she was beautiful.
Evan swung the gun his way, which was fine by Curly. He’d much rather the weapon focus on him. The man looked about ten cheeseburgers shy of a healthy weight. His skin had a sickly yellowish pallor to it, and his clothes hung too big. Maybe he’d been handsome once, but no longer. Between the unhinged gleam in his eye and the twitchy way he couldn’t stand still, the guy was either on something or losing his shit.
“Back the fuck up. This is between my wife and me.”
Curly lifted his hands to shoulder height but grunted. “She’s not your wife. Not anymore. You fucked that up too much for her to stay with you.”
“Shut up.” Evan’s upper lip curled in a snarl similar to Ray’s.
“Curly, don’t…” Fear was etched all across Brooke’s face.
He winked at her.
“Brooke has a real man now. One who doesn’t need to control how she dresses, who she talks to, or what she does to overcompensate for having a small dick.”
“Shut your fucking mouth.” Evan’s face turned beet red. Best thing that could happen right then would be for the guy to stroke out and keel over. But he’d take the attention on himself until Brooke could escape or his guys burst in. “I gave her everything, and she ruined my fucking life.”
Ray continued to bark. A thumping came from upstairs as well. Probably the frenzied dog throwing his body against the door. Brooke would kill Evan six times over if Ray injured himself.
“You know who blames their shit on their woman?” Curly asked, calm as could be on the outside though his insides were screaming at his men to hurry the fuck up and get in there with some weapons. “Spoiled little boys.”
Brooke snorted out a laugh that made Curly want to kiss her.
“Fuck you!” Evan lunged toward Brooke, grabbing her by the hair.
Brooke yelled in pain as she sunk her fingernails into Evan’s hand.
A loud bark drew all of their attention. Ray tore down the stairs snarling, snapping, and baring his teeth is a ferocious display of protection. He skipped the last five steps, then a streak of black and tan dashed toward the den.
The next three seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. Evan released Brooke and spun toward Ray with his finger on the trigger. Brooke sprang forward, trying to grab the gun. Ray jumped, flying through their air as he made for Evan, who pulled the trigger.
Curly reacted without thinking. He threw himself to the right, slamming into Ray’s airborne body. Pain ripped through his side, fiery and intense a second before he hit the tile floor.
Brooke screamed as glass shattered then another gunshot rang out. From his position wrapped around Ray on the floor, Curly watched Evan collapse in a heap. The gun fell from his limp hand with a clatter.
“Curly! Ray!” Brooke ran to them, dropping to her knees. “Oh, my God, there’s blood.” Her expression revealed the horror she felt inside. “There’s so much blood.”
“Ray’s okay, baby. He’s fine. He’s not hurt.” As though to prove his point, Ray hopped to his feet and ran toward Scott who’d just entered the room with a rifle in hand. He nodded once to Curly, then held his hand out for the dog.
“Ray’s okay? She glanced over at the dog then down at him. So then you…” She paled.
“Shit, prez, you’re hit?” Pulse ran in and dropped down next to him, lifting his shirt. He studied Curly’s side with a competent, clinical expression. “I’m pretty sure this is just a graze. It’s bleeding like a mother fucker, but it doesn’t look deep at all. I got supplies in my saddlebags. Be right back.”
“Yeah, I think it’s only a nasty scratch.” A scratch that hurt like a fucking bullet had ripped through him. But, for Brooke’s sake, he played it down. She seemed about two seconds from melting down.
A bubble of hysterical laughter left a wide-eyed, shocky Brooke. “A scratch? Shit.” She folded over. Her forehead hit his shoulder, and she began to sob.
“Shhh, baby, it’s okay.” He cradled her head against his shoulder, kissing the top of her head. “It’s over. He can’t hurt you.”
Her tears soaked one side of his shirt while blood seeped into the other. It burned as though someone held a white-hot poker against his torso, but the perfection of having Brooke alive and in his arms exceeded the relief any pain medication could provide.