“Do you know what a grease burn does to skin? Especially when it’s good and hot?”
I look down at the pan. The bacon is burnt to a crisp, practically floating in viciously bubbling grease. That kind of thing won’t kill me, but it will hurt like a bitch. It will scar. “You’ll never make it out of this place alive, Peter.” My voice sounds eerily calm, even to my ears. “Hook’s people will kill you first.”
“You and Hook won’t live long enough to enjoy that. No one crosses me without consequences. You know that better than anyone. It’s time to pay the piper, baby.” He nudges us closer to the stove. To the grease-filled pan. “Give me your hand, Tatiana.”
“Okay.” I jerk my hand out of my purse and press my taser to the bare skin of his arm. The volt of energy makes him grip me tighter, but the second I let go of the trigger, he collapses to the floor. I go to my knees next to him and press the taser to his throat. This time, I hold the trigger for a five count, until his eyes roll back in his head. When I lift it away from his skin, he doesn’t move.
I stare down at his unconscious form. It happened so fast. I did it. I fought the monster who’s haunted my nightmares for years. “No one touches me without permission anymore, asshole.” He can’t hear me, but it feels good to say. So fucking good.
Even though I want to rush to Hook, I take a few seconds to pat Peter down. I find a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants and the keys to the cuffs. Only then do I climb to my feet. Hook meets me halfway. “I can’t believe you came here.” He’s weaving on his feet in a way that alarms me, but at least he’s moving.
“We don’t have a lot of time. Hold this.” I carefully press the gun into his hand and focus on the cuffs. It takes me three tries to fit the key into the lock. I can’t stop shaking. It’s not over, and fear and determination and anger have me in a stranglehold. I toss the cuffs to the ground. “I have to get you out of here.”
“Tink.”
I ignore him and shove the taser back into my purse. “We have to go. Right now.”
“Tink.”
I look up, but he’s not focused on me. He’s focused on something over my shoulder. I desperately don’t want to turn around, don’t want to see my nightmare rising to stand. I open my mouth, but Hook moves before I can say a word. He drags me to his chest, and lifts the gun. A bang. Another. A third. A thump as something large hits the ground.
Silence.
His big hand keeps my face pinned to his chest, but he relaxes the smallest amount. “He’s gone.”
“Hook.” I try to push away, but he doesn’t let me go. “Jameson. I need to see.”
“No.”
It’s tempting, so tempting, to just give in, but I can’t shake the feeling that if I don’t look now, I’ll always be glancing over my shoulder. “Please. I have to.”
“It’s proof that I’m a monster.” He says it so softly, I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or himself. “It was always going to happen, but I thought I’d hesitate.”
“No.” I stop fighting him and pull him closer, as if I can hug him hard enough to chase away that emptiness in his voice. He’s shaking, and it makes my heart ache for him. For both of us. “You are not a monster. You are not like him, Jameson. You’re a good fucking person and a good person does what it takes to protect the protect the people they care about.” I take a slow breath. “Let me see.”
“Don’t take this on, beautiful girl.” He sounds hoarse and almost sorry. “It’s not your burden to bear.”
It’s one he fully intends to take for himself so no one else has to. Even with the mess inside my chest right now, I don’t think I’ve ever loved him more. I hold him tighter. “I need to see, Jameson. I need this to be over once and for all.” When he still hesitates, I say the words I’m suddenly certain he needs to here. “I love you. There isn’t a single thing that’s happened today to make me love you less. Do you understand me, Jameson? I love you and he doesn’t get to take that from either of us.”
Finally, a small eternity later, he loosens his grip enough for me to twist in his arms. Peter lies on the floor of the kitchen, three gunshot wounds in his chest, his blue eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. I take it in with a single sweep, waiting for reality to sink in. He’s gone. Really, truly gone. Then I see the pan beside him, the spilled grease. “He was going after me.” The grease might not kill me, but a blow or two from that pan would.