And he was winning, Ivan was prostrate on the floor, covered in blood, and whatever was to happen would be over in minutes if Alexander continued at this pace, and he showed no effort in stopping.
But then I saw Ivan’s hand, reaching down towards his right leg which he bent to gain access to his ankle. He had to reach with his left, I realized, as his right hand bore a gaping, seeping hole.
He was going for the gun though, and I wanted to scream. I wanted to warn Alexander. But my voice wouldn’t come. I opened my mouth, again and again, but I was a fish out of water. I couldn’t speak, my throat was dry and scratchy. Arrested by fear.
My eyes searched the room frantically. Another gun, tossed against the floor. Waiting to be used. Waiting for the trigger to be pulled so it could do what guns do best.
Hurt. Maim. Murder.
I dove for it, ignoring the pain as I hit the floor and was reminded of how bruised and battered I was. But my own injuries didn’t matter.
All that mattered was saving him.
Saving Alexander.
I scrambled to my knees, my hands curling around the gun and my index finger finding the trigger. I pointed it at Ivan and squeezed, but the trigger wouldn’t respond to my touch.
The safety. I’d forgotten the safety!
I was going to be too late.
Ivan pulled out the small revolver, pointing it up at Alexander.
“How’s this for predictable, Bratva Prince?” He snarled out the words, left hand visibly unsteady and unpracticed holding a gun. Yet triumph, like a weed growing too quickly and swallowing hope, rang out through his voice.
Alexander took a step backwards, and he tensed. Preparing to be shot? Preparing to pounce?
“I thought we were doing this man on man, Ivan?” Alexander asked, swiping at the blood that trailed down his face. “Are you so much of a coward that you can’t honor your own challenge?”
“Not a coward,” Ivan smirked, “merely smarter than you.”
I searched the gun frantically, finding the small safety node and depressing it quickly. I aimed the gun again and I pulled the trigger.
The kickback rocked through me, vibrating through my shoulder, neck and teeth.
But my aim was true. The bullet flew across the room and buried itself in Ivan’s right shoulder.
This time, he didn’t yell from the pain. He screamed. High-pitched, unmanly, jarring. He rolled against the floor, his gun forgotten, as blood trickled from the fresh hole.
Both men’s gazes flew to me. Alexander’s face was surprised. Ivan’s ashen and disbelieving.
Me, the useless, battered housewife, had shot a man.
Feeling triumphant, yet hollow and weak, I clung to the weapon with shaking hands, and I realized in that moment that I never wanted to touch one again.Never.But I also couldn’t put it down, not yet. My fear was stronger than my weakness.
I watched the scenes play out in front of me. Like a movie that wasn’t really my life.
Alexander seized the advantage, dropping down to wrestle the smaller gun from Ivan’s now weak grip. When he stood again, he held the gun steadily, pointing it down at the twice-shot Ivan.
“You bitch! You’ll pay for this,” Ivan stared at me and seethed, right hand cradled against his body, left hand clutching over the wound in his shoulder.
My eyes moved to Ivan, and I could muster no feeling for him. Not hate. Nor fear. Nor relief. The floor was solid beneath me. It was real, comforting.
“You don’t get to talk to her anymore,” Alexander spoke calmly, drawing Ivan’s attention back to him. Sweat trailed down the sides of his face and he shrugged out of his torn jacket and threw it to one side, his gun’s aim staying true to its target. “You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to look at her. You don’t get to eventhinkabout her. She’s not yours and you’ll never touch her again.”
“She’s my goddamn wife,” Ivan spat back, rolling onto his side and trying to get up. He managed to almost kneel. Almost.
But Alexander stopped him with a bullet to the knee. “Not anymore.”
