“You sick fuck.” Estelle growls.
“Mind your fucking business, cunt.”
I pull Reed’s knife from my pocket, rage making my fingers shaky. I can’t open it. “Don’t talk to her like that!”
His hand moves faster than I can track, grabbing my wrist and twisting until pain shoots up my arm. The knife drops from my fingers, clattering to the floor.
“You don’t tell me what to do, girl,” he hisses, his face inches from mine, spittle flying.
“Let her go,” Estelle demands, reaching into her bag.
It happens so fast. Papa sees her movement and releases my wrist, lashing out with a backhand that catches Estelle across the face. Her bag hits the floor, contents spilling, the iPad, the mugs and her gun.
All three of us freeze for a half-second, eyes locked on the weapon. Then everything erupts into motion.
Papa lunges for the gun. I throw myself at his legs, trying to trip him. We crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs, his elbow catching me in the ribs, knocking the air out of me. I claw at his legs, his arms, anything I can reach.
Estelle recovers, snatching up one of the T-shirt wrapped mugs. She swings it, aiming for Papa’s head, but he rolls at the last moment. It smashes on the floor with a dull crack.
“You fucking bitch!” Papa roars, kicking me. I roll away, desperately searching the floor for either the gun or Reed’s knife.
I spot the knife a few feet away and scramble toward it on my hands and knees. My fingers close around it, just as I hear Estelle cry out behind me.
I turn to see Papa with the gun in his hand, already turning it toward Estelle, who’s backed against the wall.
“No!” I scream at the top of my lungs, lunging forward, but Papa’s other hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of my hair. He yanks me back so hard my vision goes white. My hearing must be jacked, too because I think I hear someone shouting my name.
“Oh, Randal,” Estelle chuckles, “you’re about to have a very bad day.”
“Please, Papa, just put the gun down.”
It’s pointed right at Estelle’s face. I feel like I’m shouting but whispers come out. He has a fistful of my hair, and he’s pulling so hard my eyes water. My skin crawls where he touches me.
“Shut up,” he hisses, spit spraying my cheek. “This bitch thinks she can walk in here and take what’s mine.”
Estelle kicks a broken coffee mug to clear a path. Her face is eerily calm, a thin trickle of blood running from her nose, but she’s almost smiling. Her eyes dart to the window, then back to Papa’s face.
“Ash!”
Papa hears it too. His body stiffens against mine, the gun wavering slightly before steadying again at Estelle’s head.
“Who’s out there?” he demands, voice tight with panic. “Who did you call?”
Before Estelle can answer, the door busts open, and Beckett fills the frame. His eyes sweep the room once. My beautiful, sweet, kind, adorable, cuddly hockey player’s face morphs into horror-movie-level rage. He takes one step into the room. Papa switches his grip so that he’s got me in a chokehold and backs us up against the wall.
Pierce and Liam are here too. Pierce is actually growling.
As the alphas fill the room, Papa’s arm shakes. He pulls the gun in close and presses the barrel to my temple.
“That’s far enough,” Papa barks. “One more step, and I’ll pull the trigger.”
“Let her go.” Beckett is seething. It’s easy to forget how huge he is. Now I know what it’s like to face him on the ice, all his height and weight, all his muscle, coming right for you.
“You really want this little whore? You know she tricks herself out for all the knots she take?”
The barrel digs deeper against my temple, and I whimper.
“You’ve been giving it away to them for free, haven’t you? Knowing what that piece of shit did to your brother?” Papa hisses in my ear, shaking me. “What would Reed think?”
