One to Protect (One to Hold 3)

In one practiced motion, he’s in my grasp, both my hands on the sides of his skull. Heat radiates between his skin and mine, and I don’t waste a second doing what I know to do, what I’m trained to do.

To end this.

To answer his threat and protect her forever.

A swift twist, and a deeply satisfying SNAP! travels through the bones of my wrists, up my arms, over my shoulders to my brain. I release him, spreading my hands wide, and Sloan Reynolds drops like a stone, dead at my feet.

My breath is coming in pants, and my arms lower to my sides as I stand over him. The entire room seems to have moved out from me, and I’m alo

ne in a space looking down on what I’ve done. Waiting to feel something.

Waiting.

Seconds tick by on the clock, and at last it comes.

Satisfaction unrolls like a slow wave in my chest, unfurling like wings through my arms and legs, down my torso to my fingers and toes.

In my peripheral vision, I register Patrick moving swiftly, his voice low. “Fuck fuck Fuck. Okay. Well, good riddance. Now we’ve gotta act. Fast.”

I step over and gently take Melissa’s necklace from Star’s weak hand. She’s breathing more normally now, despite the tears trickling down her cheeks. Still, she’s not weeping. She seems to be recovering, rebuilding her own tough exterior, getting the shield back in place. I’m familiar with that.

Straightening again, I watch as Sloan’s body twitches like a dead snake.

Patrick helps Star to her feet and gives her a hug. “Enemy combatant handled,” he whispers and pulls off one of his black gloves. Handing it to her, he gives a gentle order, “Take this. Wipe every place you touched him, and get those pants good and down, soldier.”

I can’t seem to move as they work. It’s not out of guilt, because I know with every ounce of certainty I possess I’d fucking do what I just did again and again.

A strong hand grips my shoulder. “Hey. Snap out of it and get the fuck out of here. We’re behind you.”

Patrick’s back to wiping everything with his one glove and Star’s slowly doing the same. “Go!” He hisses.

With a black-gloved hand, I grasp the outside door and wait, listening. The only sound is the two of them cleaning, punctuated by a quiet sniff every few seconds from Star.

I rub my hand up and down on the doorframe and handle, wiping it clean, but just as I’m about to step through it, a dull thud comes from behind me. It’s followed fast by another, and another. Whop whop…

Turning back, I see Star kicking Sloan’s dead body in the stomach hard. Her voice is cold with anger, and tears stripe her cheeks. “That’s for Tiffany, you fuckwad. I hope you’re rotting in fucking hell right now.” Then she lands a stomping blow to his chest, adding in a low whisper. “That’s for me.”

She pivots slightly and pulls back to make another blow, but Patrick catches her leg. “Not the head. It might fly off.”

Her eyes cut to me, and my brow is creased as I nod. I guess we’re more alike than I’d care to admit. I understand her primal need. I know the satisfaction she feels kicking him. She’d probably enjoy punting his head across the room.

Rubbing my eyes, I force these macabre thoughts to stop. I come back out of the rabbit hole, and continue out the door. Patrick’s right. We’ve got to go.

I silently make my way down the hedge-lined alley along the back of the hotel. We have a long stretch of conference-room windows to get past before we’re out of range, and I’m hoping Star’s recovered enough to walk normally by the time they make it to the end of our leafy covering.

Dark window after dark window, I’m moving fast, thankful it’s way after hours. Patrick and I are both trained for stealth, but our injured colleague isn’t. I hold up at the edge of the building, where the tall shrub ends and listen.

It seems I’ve made it, and I yank the black gloves off my hands, shoving them into my pockets. Looking back, Star’s leaning on Patrick’s arm as he basically carries her down the hidden path. He stops when he reaches me, and leans her against the wall. She watches as he pulls off his gloves and puts them in his pockets.

His voice is low. “We need to act as inconspicuous as possible. The Four Seasons is only a few blocks. Can you make it?”

She nods barely, and it does nothing to ease the adrenaline surging through my veins.

I don’t know how to place what I’ve done, where to put it in my mind or how to wrap my head around it. I’ve had to kill before, but in this case… What I’ve done is something outside the law. It’s vigilante justice, and it’s a cold fact that I’m not sorry.

How can I ever explain this to Mel? What will she think? She says I’m a hero, but I don’t know if she can love this side of me. The side that won’t back down, that will kill without hesitation.

I can’t worry about that now—it has to wait, and we have to move. I step out from behind the hedge, walking straight, hands in pockets. I don’t slow or look around.