But he's still moving with that terrifying precision, still balanced on the balls of his feet, still reading Brennan's body language with the predator focus that makes him the most dangerous man I've ever known.
I clock every fucking detail.
Brennan is worse. His nose is a flattened ruin, blood coating his chin and the front of his tactical jacket. One eye is swelling shut and he favors his left side where Kon landed a series of body shots that probably cracked ribs. But he's still standing. Stilldangerous. And his right hand is creeping toward his hip with a desperation that tells me he's done trying to win with fists.
The gun clears the holster before Kon registers the movement.
"KON!" His name rips from my throat with a force that scrapes my vocal cords raw.
Brennan fires.
The bullet catches me above my left ear.
I don't feel pain, not at first, just the sudden wet heat blooming across my temple and the way the world lurches sideways as if the rooftop has been yanked out from under my feet.
My hand flies to my head and my fingers come away slick with blood that looks black in the fading light.
I'm on the ground. The impact rattles through my skull and every sound in the world drops to a muffled hum, like someone shoved cotton in my ears and turned the volume down on reality.
Through vision that blurs and sharpens in nauseating waves, I watch Kon's body absorb what just happened. His gaze snaps from Brennan to me on the ground, blood in my hair, and the sound that erupts from his chest is a roar that belongs to no human throat.
Raw, primal, the unleashed fury of a man watching the woman he loves bleed on the ground, and the force of it vibrates through the gravel beneath my cheek.
He charges Brennan. The distance between them closes in two strides that shake the rooftop.
Brennan fires twice more.
Kon jerks. Once, his left arm snapping back. Twice, his body twisting at the waist. Red blooms through his shirt, spreading across his arm and his side in wet, dark patches that make my vision swim.
But he doesn't stop. He doesn't slow down. The bullets hit him and he absorbs them and he keeps coming with the unstoppable momentum of a man who has survived unspeakable violence against his body and mind. I hold back a wave of fear for the man I’ve come to love. I do not want to witness his soul leaving his body. His death cannot be for me.
But deep down I know nothing short of death is going to stop him from reaching the man who shot me.
He reaches Brennan and the rest blurs into violence I'll carry with me for the rest of my life. The wet crunch of fists against bone. The spray of blood across crushed rose petals. The guttural sounds of a man being beaten until he stops making sounds at all.
My fingers claw into the gravel beneath me, sharp edges biting into my palms, and every instinct in my body screams at me to get up and run to him. To throw myself between Kon and the gun and the blood and whatever is left of Brennan on that rooftop. But my legs won't hold me and my head swims every time I lift it and all I can do is press my cheek against the cold gravel and watch the man I love become the Beast.
Kon stands over Brennan's broken body, swaying on his feet, his dark hair hanging wild and loose around his face, blood dripping from his arms and his side and his split knuckles onto the gravel. He turns toward me, those black eyes finding mine through the blood and the hair streaked across his jaw, and his mouth forms my name but the sound that comes out is barely a whisper.
He takes one step. Two.
My heart clenches. My throat goes bone dry.
His knee buckles. He catches himself, straightens, reaches for me with a bloody hand.
“Onyx, ??????.” His voice is rough and fear is written all over his face. Dark eyes find mine.
I try to move but my body reminds me I am not in control of a single muscle.
To my left, more men arrive with weapons raised. They appear from the rooftop stairwell. I don’t recognize a single face. They can’t be Brennan's crew.
Kon goes down to one knee.
Panicked, I scream, “Kon, no! Don’t move.” My words are garbled to my ears.
Blood pools beneath him on the gravel, spreading between crushed petals and scattered soil.
Hands close around my arms, rough and impersonal, hauling me backward across the rooftop. I try to fight but my body won't respond to what my brain is screaming at it to do. My limbs turn heavy and slow. Around me, the world fades at the edges while the bullet graze above my ear pulses hot and wet.
