Page 97 of Trigger Happy Ending

Alex shrugs, flicking ash onto the deck. “Did she tell you?”

My heart starts to thump faster.

He’s baiting me. I mustn’t fall for it.

Alex chuckles. “She didn’t, did she?”

He takes a long drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke in the air. “After you left the club?" He grabs at his crotch, crudely rubbing it. “She was begging for my cock.”

A ripple of white-hot rage overtakes my body. My vision blurs as I swallow down the violence that is pleading to be unleashed.

“Why are you so hung up on her, huh?" Alex asks, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Sure, she has a pretty face, and a cunt worth fucking, but she’s dead behind the eyes, you know?”

“You got anything else to say?” I take a slow step forward. A trick to keep the target talking while you close the distance.

His smug-ass smirks. “You want me to describe how I’m going to fuck her like the whore she is?”

The red haze drops over my vision, the same one I’ve seen many times when I’m readying to neutralize an enemy. When I’m like this? Not even god can stop me.

I’m about to tear Alex apart and feed him to the sharks.

Which, I decide, is right fucking now.

The heel of my hand smashes into his jaw, driving the bone back. His cigarette hits the deck and dies. An open-palm strike is a favorite of mine, designed to catch the enemy off guard. The element of surprise and force of the blow often cause the victim to bite their tongue. Predictably, Alex does exactly that. He staggers, lip also split as he spits out blood.

“You fuck—”

I push forward, slamming him into the bulkhead before he finishes his sentence, forearm across his throat. He throws a punch to my healing ribs, but I don’t feel pain. The adrenaline racing through my body has me feeling invincible. The thought of Alex’s hands on Raine makes me want to tear strips of flesh from this motherfucker. I pin him, crushing into his throat harder with my forearm. Alex might be strong, but he’s not trained. His weight is sloppy and has no idea how to get out of the life-threatening position he’s in. I’ve dropped bigger men in tighter spaces than this. I’m faster, meaner, and more psychotic.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” I snarl, my spit flying into his face. “You don’t get to fucking think about her.”

“Get …” His throat works under my forearm. “Off me.”

In the blink of an eye, I shift my weight and drive my elbow across his jaw, a textbook close-quarters strike, sending him reeling into the railing. Blood runs from his mouth as he spits out a tooth.

And I’m just getting started.

His hand drops for the blade I’d already clocked the second he walked in. I intercept it before he can remove it from his pocket. An open-palm strike to the throat crushes his cartilage, causing him to fold instantly, gagging for breath.

This is the kind of hit that drops enemies without a sound.

Plus, throat punches hurt. They render wannabe tough cunts into little bitches.

Exhibit A: Alex.

He stumbles, wheezing, trying to breathe through the ruin of his windpipe. I grab his collar and smash his face into the large capstan. Once, twice, a third time. Blood sprays the wall. His nose is shattered, almost gone. It’s an improvement.

He drops to his knees, hands trembling, mouth opening, but no sound coming out.

I crouch and look directly into his bloodshot, watery eyes. “You know I’m beating you to death, right?”

He can’t answer. Good.

The killing calm takes over now. I’ve perfected that cold, surgical mindset from the dozens of black ops missions, but tonight reminds me less of the missions and more of how I felt when I killed the men who were responsible for murdering my terror squad. I straddle him, planting him flat on the deck, hips locking him in place. Alex thrashes weakly, trying and failing to grab onto my arms, but the strength’s gone. He doesn’t even have enough gas left in the tank to grab onto my suit sleeves.

I watch his eyes dart around, pupils dilated, wide and frightened.

Those eyes were on my woman.