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Beatrice steadied her hand. She was shaking not in fear, but in fury. “This is for Montrell.”
Maeve’s face contorted as she shrieked and lunged. The bullet missed her forehead. Blood still splattered, but then the woman was on her.
Beatrice lost the gun as they fell to the floor, her head hitting the damn side table. Nails scraped down her face, and she lashed out with a punch. The weight on top of her kneeled on her chest, and she fought for breath, punching again. Her fist missed as she saw the mangled flesh of Maeve’s face. The bullet she’d squeezed off hadn’t missed. It had plowed through the woman’s cheek.
Her shock allowed Montrell’s mother to capture her arm in both of hers. Sudden pressure, and then excruciating pain as the woman snapped her arm.
Beatrice screamed.
Maeve’s smile was visible within her bloody cheek, and her eyes unfocused. “There,” she breathed. “There it is.”
Beatrice tried to focus through the pain. She headbutted Maeve right in that damn cheek, managing to roll them away from the table. Glass scraped her along with the nails. Maeve was scratching like a wild thing, not slowed by her own pain at all. She was a crazed animal with teeth bared and limbs flying.
The excruciating pain in Beatrice’s arm spiked again and again as she tried to roll them, tried to find purchase. There were scrapes all over her body, and a punch to her temple made the world spin and her stomach lurch. The nausea and dizziness collided as her body urged her to give in and pass out.
Her working hand landed on something sharp. She closed it around the piece of glass and stabbed it into Maeve’s goddamn eye.
Montrell’s mother howled as she finally jerked back.
Beatrice scrambled for the gun and shifted on the ground to face her. She didn’t miss from so close, emptying the clip into the monster until she lay still and staring.
The door burst open, and Beatrice forced her exhausted body to roll again, hoping the nearby fluttering curtains would hide her for even a moment. Her broken arm took the brunt of her weight, and vertigo hit her, along with the sudden view of the sky.
A blast of wind numbed her aching body as she panted on the ground of the balcony beyond the curtain.
She had to move. She knew she had to, but her body hurt so badly. It hurt worse than the time she’d dragged herself back to her father after her husband had broken her.
She lurched to her feet, swaying behind the foot or two of wall next to all that shattered glass just in time. More bullets punched through the curtains, spraying the area where she had just been.
Her lungs struggled for air as she tried to focus, tried to think through her panic and pain.
All she could think about was Montrell, how she’d only told him she loved him once. It seemed like such a waste.
Arms wrapped around her from behind. She appreciated her mind’s effort to give her the image she wanted. Only these arms weren’t thick tree trunks. They were skinny and covered in black, through to the gloves covering the hands.
The arms dragged her to the edge of the balcony, where they tumbled over it together. Beatrice didn’t have enough air to scream. The sky above her dimmed as her consciousness fell into the waiting darkness that had been calling to her tired body.
Chapter 28
The first thing Beatrice saw when she woke up was Montrell’s face. Even sleeping, his brow was scrunched with concern. She moved her hand, the one not weighed down by a cast, passing her fingers over his thick, reddish-brown hair. Peace filled her as the crease on his face eased.
Montrell was alive. He hadn’t disappeared from her life, hadn’t been killed by her father or the idiotic Irish or anyone.
“I love you,” she rasped. She’d promised herself she’d tell him again if she could.
“He’ll be pissed he fell asleep,” Vespa said. She rose from the chair against the wall of Beatrice’s bedroom. She snorted as she shuffled closer, studying her face. “You look like hell.”
Beatrice didn’t doubt it. The hand she touched Montrell with had scratches all over it, as did most of her visible skin. Whatever medicine she’d been given had dulled the pain, but she could still feel it. “Same,” she said, and it was true.
Vespa’s face was mottled with dark bruises, and her arm hung in a sling just as it had in Vegas. She patted the strap of the sling with her good hand. “What can I say? We’re twinsies. Though mine was a dislocated shoulder and should heal faster.” Her gaze latched onto Beatrice’s arm. “That was his mom’s work, wasn’t it?”
Beatrice’s fingers froze. She forced them to move, to continue stroking Montrell’s hair. He deserved all the comfort in the world for having survived the mother he had. “The things she said…” she murmured. She wondered how long his mother’s laugh would haunt her. Not nearly as long as it would Montrell.
Vespa’s eyes narrowed. “You killed her?”
Beatrice dropped her gaze to her husband’s face. “Yes,” she admitted. She remembered Montrell’s conflicted expression as he’d said he hadn’t wanted his mother to die.
“Good.” Vespa scowled down at her sling. “I’m jealous as hell, but good. That bitch didn’t deserve to walk around this world, not after all she’d done to him.”
