Three hundred pounds of murder aimed at the man touching my woman.
He sees me. His face goes white under the blood—she broke his nose, that's my girl—and he shoves off the counter, wrenches the gun into his own grip, arm snaking around her throat.
"One more step and she dies."
I don't stop.
"I mean it!" He jams the gun harder against her temple. She flinches. A choked whimper. "Back the fuck off or I pull the trigger!"
Another step. The floorboards groan under my weight.
"You won't shoot her."
Not my voice. The voice of something that crawled out of the camps and never stopped fighting.
"She's your leverage. She's your only play." Another step. "You shoot her, there's nothing between you and me."
He glances at the door behind me. The broken frame. The splinters. Looking for a way out.
There aren't any.
"And I think you know what happens then." My voice drops lower. "You saw what I did to that door. Your body's next."
The gun wavers.
"Stay back—"
"He killed Carver!" Eden's voice cuts through, raw and desperate. "Diesel, he killed him—"
Daniels jerks her back. "Shut up—"
But I heard.
The blood on his coat. Fresh. Not hers.
Carver.
I step forward.
He panics.
I see it—the moment he realizes his leverage is worthless if he can't use it.
The gun swings toward me.
The shot cracks through the apartment—punches into my shoulder. Hot metal tearing through muscle. Then numb. Then a deep, grinding ache that spreads down my arm.
I stagger, left arm going dead.
I don't stop.
Daniels' eyes blow wide. He expected me to drop.
He doesn't know orcs.
Orcs survive.
I close the distance in two strides. My good arm hooks around Eden's waist. She goes stiff. I shove her sideways. Hard. She hits the floor, rolls clear, out of the line of fire.
