Then she shoved a knife deep into my thigh.
I felt it pierce through every layer of muscle in my quads until it hit bone.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.
To her surprise—and my own—I didn’t break the kiss. I was milking this shit until the very last minute. Tierney ripped her mouth from mine, glaring. I offered her ayes, bitch? smirk. She was still holding the knife by the hilt, the triumph draining from her face as she realized I wasn’t going to fold and release her.
“That’s right, Piccola Fiamma. Twist that knife. You’ve aways been good at hurting me.”
She scowled, her surprise morphing into fury. “Why the hell are you so smug?”
“You could’ve stabbed me anywhere and didn’t go for the heart. Is this a love declaration, baby?”
She reached for the gun in my hand. I twisted sideways to prevent her from grabbing it, then stepped back, the knife still stuck in my thigh.
Realizing she couldn’t overpower me, she turned around and started running. I sighed in amusement, pointing the gun at the back of her head.
Pull it, motherfucker.
My index finger readjusted against the trigger. I reminded myself she’d stabbed me not even a minute ago. Tried to kill me—twice now—and sold me out to the feds.
Pull. The. Fucking. Trigger.
She stumbled and heaved, the adrenaline and exhaustion getting the best of her, and when she rounded the corner, she stumbled and fell, diving to the ground with a desperate shriek.
I lowered the gun and limped my way to her. Her eyes flared in horror at the sight of me. She slithered away from me on her forearms, a pathetic, defenseless creature.
“What’s wrong?” I demanded.
“If you wanna shoot, shoot, don’t ta?—”
“What happened to your leg?”
Her gaze skittered from my face to her foot. She swallowed. “I—I think I sprained my ankle.”
“Where are you staying?”
Her face hardened. “Like I’m gonna tell y?—”
“I can execute you right now if I want to. Where are you staying, Tierney?”
She hesitated, her eyelashes fluttering, suspended between panic and desperation.
“In this fucking century, please.” My leg was killing me.
She gave me her address. I knew the place. A whorehouse, a ten-minute distance from here. I kneeled on my good leg, scooping her and her stupid backpack in my arms and limping in that direction. We were going to take a water taxi at our state, which meant I was about to press a gun to someone’s temple in broad daylight. Fucking fantastic. The woman really had a knack for throwing my life into the eye of the shitstorm.
“W—what are you doing?”
“The fuck does it look like?” Her question was valid, though. I had no business helping her ass. She should be bleeding in an alleyway.
“You have a knife in your thigh.”
“I’ve noticed.”
She wrapped her arms around my neck, and I fought the urge to kiss her, focusing on the pain in my leg instead.
