The gun fell from his hand, clattering across the floor.
But it didn’t matter.
Because it was out of his hands.
And Christopher was off the bed, plowing into Atanas as I scrambled away, my breath huffing out of me, trying to calm myself back down.
There was a crash as the men slammed into my dresser.
Christopher had the advantage. He was taller. Stronger. More fit.
But Atanas had his humiliation to fuel him.
My gaze moved around the floor, finding one of the guns, crawling my way over toward it, wanting to make sure Christopher and I kept the advantage.
There was a hiss and crash, Christopher hitting the ground just a foot or two from me.
Even as he gasped for breath, his wind knocked out, a hand closed around my ankle, pulling.
My arms shot out, my fingertips just barely managing to grab the handle of the gun as he continued to pull me.
For a split second, I saw the panic in Christopher’s eyes as he moved to roll over, so he could gain his feet again.
He could save me, yes.
But I would never be a woman in need of saving.
I kicked one leg over the other, throwing myself onto my back, my ankle screaming at the motion, likely demanding a trip to the emergency room, but that was something to worry about later.
Back hitting the hard floor, I raised my arms, aimed, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.
Once.
Twice.
Three.
Four times.
I wasn’t the best shot.
But Smith taught me that if you put enough holes in someone, one of them was bound to kill him.
One hit him in the chest.
Two in the head.
One in the throat.
He was dead before his body hit the floor.
Even so, I could see Christopher rushing up and past me, going to his body, checking for a pulse, making sure he was good and dead before turning back to me, eyes wide with worry.
“Are you okay?” he asked, dropping down beside me, reaching to pull the gun from my slightly shaking hands.
“I think he broke my ankle,” I told him, feeling the searing, throbbing sensation, the way the whole area seemed to have a pulse of its own as my body flooded it with fluid.
“Okay,” he agreed, one hand moving out, pressing to my throat, feeling for my pulse for some reason, making me realize I was hyperventilating. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked, hands already moving all over me, searching for anything.
“I think I have rug burn on my ass,” I admitted, catching him off guard, making a strangled laugh escape him. “I think I am going to need to have you rub salve on it. Twice a day. For at least a week.”
“Christ, Melody, you didn’t need to go get in a gun fight to get me to massage your ass,” he told me, lips curving up for a second. “What do we do now?” he asked. “This is not my country. I don’t know what happens now.”
I found I liked that he so easily deferred to me, trusted in me to handle the situation.
“We need to call Quin. And Finn. Finn will… handle this,” I said, waving a hand toward the body. “But Quin needs to be involved.”
“Okay,” he agreed, moving to stand, going over to the bed, yanking off the sheet and a couple pillows, covering me, then carefully lifting my leg, slipping the pillows under my ankle to get it up above my heart to slow the swelling. “I’ll be right back. I need to find your phone,” he told me, sounding regretful.
“Christopher?” I called as he stepped away.
“Yeah, kardia mou?”
“You should put some pants on,” I told him, feeling my lips curve up a bit. “I mean, I’m not complaining, but the guys might not appreciate your body as much as I do,” I told him, watching as a bashful smile pulled at his lips as he grabbed his pants off the floor, jumping into them before finding my phone, scrolling through the contacts, and calling Quin. Then Finn.
“Where’s Fenway when you need him?” I grumbled a moment later, still sprawled on the floor, Christopher sitting beside me, fingers stroking through my hair.
“Why do you need Fenway?” he asked. “Because he can always be counted on to have Percocet for situations like this,” I told him, getting more upset by my throbbing ankle by the moment, I knew we had to wait until Quin and Finn showed up before we could get me dressed and to the emergency room for a cast and my very own prescription of much-needed pain medicine.
It was maybe five more minutes before Quin came rushing into the room, gaze assessing the situation quickly before moving over toward us, squatting beside me on the floor. “You okay, Mills?” he asked, eyes apologetic even though this clearly wasn’t his fault.
“My ankle hurts. And I have rug burn on my ass,” I added, watching as he gave me a little lip twitch.