The Fall of V (The Henchmen MC 13)

Not because I had any intention of going along with his instructions, but because I wanted him to think I would.

He lowered the gun, reaching into his pocket to produce a pocket knife, flicking it open. I had a second to realize that it was the same one I had, that Uncle Wolf had given me for my thirteenth birthday, making me swear I would never go anywhere without it. I didn't, either. I even had it on me when I was taken, hidden in the zipper compartment of my purse along with my just-in-case tampons.

That purse was lost now.

I would never see that knife again.

There was a distinct sadness at that little loss.

The blade tip slipped under the zip tie on my left wrist, making the other side of it crush deeper into the already open and bloody wound there.

My air caught, but I managed to keep the hiss of pain inside as he pulled harder, trying to make the thick, stubborn plastic break.

It - and the piece of wood that had been between it and my wrist on the bottom - fell to the ground as he got to work on my other wrist.

It was then, when his head was ducked, the very second that the zip tie gave, that my other hand opened, the bottom of my palm extended, slamming upward, catching him under the nose, making him fly backward with a cry of pain as blood immediately trickled out, red and ugly, slipping from his nostrils to his lips, down his chin, and dripping onto his shirt as he was able to think through the pain, and charge me.

I skittered back, giving up ground, trapping myself closer to the wall to avoid the full force of a man who was twice my size's fist as it unavoidably cracked across my cheek and into my nose, making my eyes water, making the pain overtake half my face, all but guaranteeing a black eye or two within an hour.

My arm shot out, elbow catching his chin as I fought to get the wetness to stop flooding my eyes, making it harder to see.

"E-fucking-nough," he growled, raising the other side, still holding the gun, making my stomach plummet, knowing I might have been strong, but I probably wasn't strong enough to handle a gunshot without crying in pain.

But he turned it in his giant palm, making me all-too-aware of what was to follow.

It was a silly, overused term.

And accurate.

Pistol-whip.

Even as the thought formed, I could feel the first pang of pain to the side of my head.

But just for a second.

After that, everything went black.EIGHTFerrynPanic was the first thing I was aware of as I gained consciousness, the sensation of loss of time, loss of perception, loss of reality.

Was it too late?

My gut dropped as my heart found a new home in my throat, cutting off air, as my brain tried to fully surface.

But as I finally did, as my mind and body found the connection they had been missing, I could feel my upper body bouncing, a solid, painful unyielding pressure on my belly.

A body.

I was over someone's shoulder.

Bouncing because we were descending stairs.

I had only been out maybe a couple long seconds.

Even as my eyes watched the door, left carelessly open, I could feel the insistent pounding in my temples, immediately making nausea swirl through my belly and throat.

I prayed - though I wasn't sure what kind of faith I even had left anymore - that it was just from the blow, that I hadn't gotten another concussion.

Uncle Pagan had been the one to warn me about them, having been in a ring maybe more than anyone else could claim.

Gotta be careful with headshots, Fer. Easy to get brain damage from concussions. Or second-impact syndrome. Drop dead from a simple tap because you already got so much fucking damage up there.

One nice thing about Uncle Pagan was he refused to dumb things down or even censor his speech.

But maybe, just this once, I would have been happy not to have the idea of possible death in my future if I whack my head against a cabinet because I had a couple head injuries during this ordeal.

My body jolted one final time, knocking a bit more of my air out, as we hit the landing, pulling me out of my useless anxiety.

If I was going to be anxious about something, it should have been what I was about to do, about how I didn't even know how I was going to do what I needed to do.

My body jumped again, less violently, as he walked over toward my spot, hauling me down, almost dropping me on my butt full-force before he thought better of it, grabbing my upper arm as I dropped.

The shackle was on my foot in a blink, and he was turning.