Page 185 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

Time doesn’t slow; it never fucking does.

But Kade’s focus grinds painfully onto this new scene.

Luca still standing. Luca no longer whole. Kade barely feels the next bullet pierce his own body, punching straight through the meat of his shoulder as he catches Luca before he can fall and drags him down behind the remains of a stone wall. More rounds tear through the masonry, spitting powdered stone and splinters of brick across them.

They’re shooting through the walls.

Heavy weapon, armour-piercing rounds.

The ruin isn’t cover any more.

‘SORRENKO!’ Kade screams. ‘TAKE HIM, TAKE—!’

Another bullet tears through his chest, dangerously close to his heart.

It knocks Kade down, Luca too. The floor is littered with debris.

There’s a loud bang from somewhere, followed by a chorus of yells.

‘USE THE MORPHLOX!’ an unfamiliar voice bellows before another bang, followed by a horribly loud snap. Bones, he’d bet.

Vasily feels for a pulse on Kade’s neck as he kneels beside him. Whatever he’s saying in Russian is too rapid-fire for Kade’s foggy mind to translate. All he can do is cling to Luca and try not to pass out.

‘We have him!’ someone yells. ‘All units, pull back, we have him!’

Vasily looks up, eyes wide, towards the unfamiliar voice.

‘Bozhe moy,’ he utters breathlessly.

Kade blinks hard, trying to move, but his body reminds him he’s probably dying and should stay still. He can’t see whoever Vasily is staring at.

If Kade dies… it’ll kill Riley.

‘Please,’ he begs no one, anyone, ‘no.’

There comes another explosion that shakes the very earth beneath him.

Luca is horribly quiet while Kade’s chest collapses like a dying star.

Vasily covers Kade’s body with his own.

The last thing Kade hears is Lachlan calling his name before a glittering darkness draws him out to sea.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The tree is rough against his back.

This man is warm against his front.

Their kisses taste of rainwater because they’re both dripping wet, and it’s November-cold, but love makes them warm.

‘Don’t stop,’ he begs into the kiss. ‘Love me more, love me harder.’

His voice is thick with the weight of heavy wet things, blood, spit, tears and rain on his tongue. All water belongs to the sea, doesn’t it? Surrounded by the vetiver residue of heavy rain, he drinks what kisses are given, swallows the taste of the man he loves, his to greedily keep as his body strains, desperate to reach the shimmering, opaline shores of release.

His jealous fingers are tight in long, dark hair and his legs are locked around a trim waist, and they slot together so well it’s like they’re made for one another, perfectly designed, destined and fated.

It’s dangerous to fuck in the open where someone could see.