Page 69 of Venomous Games

“Don’t play coy with me, Boston. We both know you’re smarter than that.”

“What are you talking about?”

He sighs, then drops the coffee to the ground and kicks the cup. “I take it my men didn’t succeed.”

His words have barely registered before I have my gun unholstered and pointed straight at his head. He doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that my gun is aimed at his skull. In fact, he takes a step closer so the barrel of the gun presses against his forehead.

“Do you really think I’d have this conversation while you have a loaded gun?” I don’t believe him, so I pull the trigger. It makes a clicking sound but fires no bullets. How the fuck did he gain access to my gun?

I lower the weapon, and he steps back. “He wouldn’t accept me, and I had a feeling it was because you’re of so much use to him. I figured I could take you out and replace you, but somewhere along the way, your pretty little wife started killing all my men.” When he mentions Maven, everything in me goes cold, and fear strikes me at the thought of him doing something to her. But he doesn’t notice, and continues, “And then I thought maybe you did have a clue about what I’m doing. Did you send her after my men?”

“Your men?”

“Edgar, Marcus, and Bailey,” he says. “All members of your little society.”

“The society you clearly want to be a part of,” I say. “How did you even know about it?”

“Marcus talked a lot of shit when he drank,” he tells me, then lifts his gun just as the rev of a bike comes from behind me. “I’ll kill her too. Maybe then I’ll be accepted because I found the killer of the Forsaken members.”

I can’t help but turn to see Maven get off her motorcycle with her helmet in her hand, and we lock eyes.

“She sure is pretty. What do you think will happen when the blood stains her hair? What color does red and blue make?” he muses, training the gun on her. “Say goodbye, Boston.”

When she starts running toward me, I turn to face my partner, putting myself between her and harm’s way. If he’s going to shoot me, then he can look me in the eye. Her heels click louder with every step.

The last thing I remember is a searing burn right before I fall to the ground.

And a mess of beautiful blue hair.

THIRTY-NINE

MAVEN

Boston’s slate-gray eyes have become a favorite of mine, the way they assess me and eat me up all at the same time. When he drops to the ground after a loud bang sounds, and his eyes close, I lose it.

The man who shot him shifts the gun in my direction, I recognize him from the police station when I had go to in there to collect Carrie, and I reach for the knife in my waistband. I don’t think twice before I throw it, and it hits him directly in the stomach, making the shot he fires miss me by inches and embed in a nearby tree. I keep running toward Boston, my hair trailing behind me, my adrenaline pushing me faster.

The smart thing to do would be to go after the man as he flees, but for some reason, my heels won’t carry me that far, and I drop down next to my husband.

“Boston. Boston.” I caress his cheek, but he doesn’t stir.

Fuck, where was he hit? I’m careful as I search him for a wound to see where the blood is coming from. He grunts, and I release a relieved sigh, knowing he’s at least still breathing. I feel something wet seep through my pants and look down at the blood covering the cement below me.

Immediately, I call an ambulance, putting the phone down as I tell them where we are and try my best to slow the bleeding, pressing my hands over the wound. He’s been hit in the stomach, and, fuck, it looks bad. His whole front is covered in blood.

“Boston, talk to me,” I beg. “Don’t you dare die on me. I need that milkshake,” I whisper, and for some reason, my vision is blurry, which I don’t understand. I wasn’t shot; I’m perfectly fine. I raise one bloody hand, making sure to keep pressure on his stomach with the other, as I hear the wail of the sirens getting closer, and wipe my face so I can see better.

Tears.

I’m crying.

“Fuck,” I grumble as his eyelids flutter but remain closed. My phone starts ringing; it’s probably Carrie calling me back with the name of the person who ordered the hit. But that information might be unnecessary now since I saw the shooter’s face.

Footsteps approach from behind me, and a hand gently touches my shoulder, the person telling me to let go of Boston. At first, I don’t want to move my hand, because what if I do and the blood starts pouring out even faster? They whisper something to me, or at least I think they whisper, because I can hardly hear them talking. Someone pulls me away as another takes over and immediately starts packing the wound with gauze.

I fall onto my ass and stare down at my feet. And for the first time in forever, I’m really mad at my heels. It wasn’t my husband’s blood I ever wanted them to be covered in. Maybe when I first met him, sure, but now I can’t think of anything worse than what I’m witnessing.

I can tell they’re trying to do everything they can to save him, and he makes another grumbling sound, which loosens something in my chest I didn’t even realize was squeezed so tight. I manage to catch my breath as they put him on the gurney and wheel him toward the ambulance. Before anyone says anything, I’m climbing in the back of the ambulance with them.