The Fall of V (The Henchmen MC 13)

I was lucky.

Someday, I would make sure I told my parents that.

And my aunts.

And uncles.

They were the sole reason I even had a chance.

We rounded a bend that opened up into what could be called a living room, though the windows were blocked with big sheets of metal that reminded me a lot of the walls at Hailstorm.

There was a single couch facing a stone-front fireplace. No carpets, no knick-knacks, no coffee table. Bare.

Really, it was now or never.

That realization should have made panic wash over me, made my heart trip and stumble forward, should have made my brain race.

But, unfathomably, everything within me calmed, stabilized. My mind cleared. My muscles seemed to steel themselves.

His hand loosened slightly, giving me just enough room to whip my body backward, to lose the grip fully.

There were a few options.

To take someone down.

Fully.

I needed him down.

We needed to grapple if I was going to get that key.

He was bigger than me, undoubtedly stronger.

But I had knowledge and the surprise factor and his underestimation of my sex, my age, on my side.

I slid back.

Planted one foot.

Lifted another.

And swung my body around, kicking around in half a circle, the top of my foot landing perfectly as my body kept swinging around before I could plant my feet again, slow the momentum so I could face him once more.

There was always a lag with liver shots.

Five or ten seconds where the pain didn't register, as the liver jerked around in the stomach cavity.

I watched with a perverse, but unmistakable, sense of glee as his face crumpled in pain, as his body went down, unable to keep strength in his legs as the pain overtook his whole body.

No mercy, my Aunt Janie would yell at me in this situation. They damn sure wouldn't show you any.

My body flew forward, instinct and repetitive, unending lessons taking over me, making me land on him, closed fists slamming down full force into weak spots.

Nose.

Eyes.

A knee came up, ramming down. I couldn't be sure, but I would have sworn I felt a crack.

Ribs.

There was no time to revel in that, to feel pride.

The key.

I had to get the key.

One hand slammed down into his face as my body shifted, as another landed a groin shot that allowed my hand to seek his pocket without him noticing.

There was one small flaw in the plan, of course.

Whereas liver shots cause enough pain to render you almost voiceless, groin shots had a tendency to make a man roar in pain.

And roar he did.

It was barely a few seconds before I heard boots running.

My hand shoved down my dress, sticking the key in my bra before landing another well-timed punch as three men stormed into the room, one plowing forward, snagging me under the arms, and lifting me clear up as though I weighed no more than a dandelion seed.

"Calm the fuck down!" he roared as my hands knew nothing but self-defense, being outnumbered, knowing my time was running out.

I didn't say anything.

What was there to say?

I simply struck out again, landing a lame punch to his jaw, not even enough to make the boulder he called a head swing at all.

All I managed was an even more sore hand, and to piss off a man who could break me in half using half force.

His hand left my arm, moving forward so fast that I momentarily forgot to grab his wrist.

But a moment was too long in this scenario.

Because half a moment meant his giant hand was closing around my throat.

Squeezing.

My mind flew to Chris, to the bands of bruises around her throat. At this man's hands? While he did awful things to her? Like he was bound to do to me as well.

Thoughts became harder as the lack of oxygen started to make my brain feel foggy, thick.

Fight, a chorus of voices sounded in my head - every last one of my loved ones speaking through my subconscious, reminding me that so long as I had air - even just a teeny bit of it - in my lungs, I had the power to try, to fight, to do something.

My hands moved up in between his outstretched ones, clasping together, half-turning, then driving down the underside of my forearm into his elbow, making it buckle downward, releasing my throat.

My voice gasped in even as my body dropped, sliding under his arm, moving behind him.

Just in time to be grabbed by the man who had carried me in that very first night, leaning down low, catching me - shoulder to belly - and hauling me up and over his shoulder.

There was a moment of asinine, but undeniable, horror at the idea of my short skirt riding up, of the bottoms of my butt cheeks exposed by my black cheeky panties.

It took superhuman self-control not to reach back, to try to drag down the fabric, to cover myself.