I’D KILL HIM.

I didn’t care I had injuries slowing me down and there was no logical, realistic way I could fight, let alone win.

I didn’t care Pimlico had taken his side over mine even though it fucking cleaved me in two.

I didn’t care I might pass out from fever and agony halfway through the battle and lose.

I had to do this to avenge Pim, to prove to myself I hadn’t let her down, and balance whatever scales I’d ruined with my fuck-ups.

Q Mercer was a dead man.

That was all there was to it.

If I died in the process of delivering that sentence…so be it.

The ankle boot around my leg hindered my prowl, but as I sank deeper into war lust, I no longer felt the bone throb beneath. That was the thing about fighting—it was a drug. As consuming as marijuana; as cloying and addictive as any contraband.

I no longer thought about what was possible but only what I needed to do.

Kill him.

Knowing I was on the cusp of violence deleted everything unnecessary out of comprehension. I had two fists (minus a broken finger). I had two arms (minus a bullet tear in my shoulder). I had two legs—

Fuck it, this asshole doesn’t stand a chance even with my handicaps.

And he was an asshole.

Instead of coming to meet me—entering this duel and taking his punishment like a goddamn man, he remained steadfast in the doorway, gatekeeper to his home and anyone stupid enough to care for him.

A woman flittered around him with something bulky bouncing on her hip, only for a petite girl in a maid’s uniform to yank her deeper into the house.

Left alone, Mercer didn’t move; he merely watched me waste precious energy traversing his lawn.

Bastard.

I could shout profanities at him. I could murder him with words. But he knew what he’d done.

He’d pulled the trigger. I’d ended up in pieces. It was his turn to know what that felt like.

With only a few metres separating us, the bastard had the gall to say, “You’re hurt, Mr. Prest. I suggest you stop before you begin. I’m not opposed to hurting you some more if you try to enter my home with violence.”

I didn’t reply.

Pity for him I wasn’t afraid and I’d stopped doubting my odds at winning in my current state. I had fury on my side, and it was a vicious instructor when it came to survival.

He could be a great fighter for all I knew. He could have mastered martial arts like I had. But unlike me, he’d been taught with rules and parameters in place. When I’d learned to fight, the Chinmoku had taken the rule book and shredded it with a machete.

I could beat him with a fractured ankle and busted elbow and any other malady without even breaking a sweat.

Three metres remaining.

Two metres.

One.

My hands locked into fists, my distended finger bellowing at being forced to curl. After this, I’d need another splint after throwing the last one on the helicopter floor, but for now…it had a job to do just like the rest of my body.

I swung before I’d even climbed the top step.

His eyes flared as he staggered backward, my blow striking his cheekbone.

If he’d expected some sort of conversation or ceremony before I began, he knew now I had no such intention.

The crunch of his face ricocheted up my arm as I stomped into his home, inhaling lemon and leather and baking.

“You fucking took what wasn’t yours to take.” I breathed hard, already drunk on what I would do, how I would parry, what death I would deliver. “You shot my cello. You tampered with my world. Prepare to die.”

A woman’s shout echoed through the house followed by the screech of something animal-like.

Mercer removed his hands from his pockets, and spat a mouthful of blood onto the white tiles. “Don’t look so smug, Prest.” His eyes narrowed. “I gave you that one. I’m apologetic enough to allow you to draw blood. But heed my warning when I say it won’t happen again.”

“Good.” I swung, missing him by a hair’s breadth as he ducked. Fucker is fast. “I don’t listen to warnings. Never have.”

Mercer ducked to the side, avoiding another volley.

With his hands free from his pockets, he raised them like a boxer. If he’d had training, it wasn’t professional. He looked as if he favoured knives and shanking his enemies rather than the old-fashioned way of blows.

He returned my punch, wielding it with a precision I hadn’t expected.

I arched backward, narrowly missing being pummelled in the nose.

His face lost its French arrogance, reforming into a mask of cold-hearted evil.

We didn’t speak again as we circled each other.

I catalogued him with more respect, seeking his weaknesses and finding none. He studied me as a slaughterer would study the pig it was about to skin.

No soul left in his eyes. No compassion.

Just sheer-minded aggression.

I actually relaxed.

Men like him I knew. I spoke their language. It meant he was a worthy opponent. And when I handed his ass to him, it would be worth the new aches and bruises I’d undoubtedly be covered with.

Our assessment of each other happened in a split second—one breath and we knew all we needed about the other. As much as I didn’t want to admit, we were cut from the same cloth. Both outsiders to a world where love and friendship were the norms.

Somehow, I believed he’d missed out on that elusive feeling for most of his life—same as me. He’d been lonely—same as me. He’d channelled such flaws into unsatisfactory attributes—same as me.

But that was where our similarities ended.

He’d taken what wasn’t his to take.

That was treason and deserved consequence.

Forgetting the pain coursing through my blood, I inhaled deeply and let go.

I sank.

I embraced.

I round-housed him with my fractured ankle and swallowed the groan of agony.

He flew backward, landing on one knee, gasping as his lungs collapsed.

I advanced, ready to make short work of this. I wanted him to die so I could earn forgiveness for my crimes.

However, he soared up, sucker-punching me in the ribs.

I fought my body’s natural response to curl around the injury. Absorbing the fresh pain, I struck him again.

Die. Just die.

Time blurred as we danced in his foyer. He met me blow for blow—some landing, some not. His punches power-delivered and sharp-fast, but he still wasn’t as quick as I was.

We circled and snarled. We kicked and punched.

He struck with hard fists, breaking the thin skin on my forehead and sending a river of blood into my eyes. But it didn’t stop me from advancing—always advancing.

I was right when I thought him a worthy opponent. I was the better fighter. But he had a talent I hadn’t pre-empted—a talent that meant he not only stayed alive but also became more adapt at kicking my ass the longer we warred.

He watched and learned.

When I threw a crane kick followed by a sequence of Kung Fu chops designed to eliminate the enemy’s ability to breathe, he threw the same combination back at me—slightly sloppy and with untrained power—but enough to stop me from gaining ground.

Our breathing mixed with grunts and groans as we gave up our stance as men and returned to our natural state as beasts.

I threw a mismatch of uppercuts. He kicked at my knee caps.

Somewhere in our fight, the sound of women’s pleas rang. Men’s shouts tried to interrupt the roar in my head of win, win, win. But Mercer didn’t look away, and neither did I.

Punch.

Kick.

Fight.

Die, motherfucker, die.

All I knew was bone-crippling pain and a swimming mind. My ingrained skills at battling were the only thing marshalling my trembling limbs into action.

Every punch, a sickness bubbled in my veins.

Every kick, a weakness crept along my skin.

I wasn’t losing to him. I was losing to the fever and prior wounds steadily stripping me of power and stamina. I just hoped he couldn’t see how close I was to losing my grip on this reality.

My vision danced with spots and not from his punches.

My ears popped and affected my balance and not from his uppercuts.

It was my own goddamn body slowly condemning me.

Every injury, every gunshot and stitch and scab leeched me of my normal endurance.

Perhaps Selix was right, and I didn’t stand a hope of success. But I had to try for Pim. I had to prove to her—even if it was subconsciously—that I was still man enough to take care of her. Still feral and dangerous enough to keep the monsters of her past at bay.

And I’m fucking failing.

I struck harder, quicker, crueller.

Mercer gasped for breath, a mixture of blood and spit marring his chin.

Unprepared for yet another level of chaos, he lost ground quickly.

Tasting victory, I added yet another layer of crazy, throwing everything I had left, begging the fever in my blood to leave me alone and for my broken body to behave just a little fucking longer.

But for every step Mercer lost, he gained an inch. His focus switched from defending himself to studying my slovenly swings, then doing his best to deliver it back to me.

His dark hair shone under the foyer lights as I backed him closer to a corner, straining for the finish line where I was the victor, he was dead, and Pim was safe once again.

He was good. Better than good.

But I was better still.

But I was also faking it.

My vision only showed shadows now not full detail. My ears no longer worked. My hands numb. My body a dead weight with injury. I’d been unconscious enough in my life to recognise the warning signs: the chugging breathing but still dying for oxygen. The rapid blinking but still stupidly blind.

I swung another fist, missing even though I was sure on trajectory. It gave Mercer enough time to get one over me, connecting squarely with my temple.

I groaned, slipping closer to the empty cavern inside, greedily pulling me from all angles.

He struck again.

I managed to block and deliver my own temple dusting blow.

Then something wriggled out the corner of my eye, distracting Q just enough for me to land a square pummel to his cheekbone.

He fell to his knees, shaking his head. Blood ran from his nose and corner of his mouth.

I stumbled on the spot, half-awake but mostly dead. Had I won? Did I want to kill him, or was this enough? Would I be satisfied having him kneel, or did I need him in a coffin?

Before I could decide, he spat a wad of blood onto the floor and something triggered in him.

He charged up, growling like a deranged animal, ramming his shoulder into my ribcage and hurling me backward.

I slammed to the ground, utterly robbed of air as my cracked ribs threatened to puncture my lungs.

Sensing my weakness, Mercer straddled me, pressing his knees onto my biceps and pulling out a sharp knife from his waistband.

He had a knife this entire time?

Poor form, fucking cheater.

“Enough.” Pressing the sharp blade against my throat, he hissed, “I said enough.”

Our eyes tangled.

Wolf to wolf.

Dragon to dragon.

I would decide when enough was enough, and this wasn’t it.

With a colossal burst of strength and the final dregs of my energy, I shoved him off me and slammed him onto his back.

Grabbing his neck, I snarled, “You didn’t listen. You didn’t see how much I fucking love her.” Squeezing hard, I begged him to die. “You fucking shot me and took her from me, and now you’ll pay the goddamn price.”

His neck strained beneath my fingers, but he restrained himself from scrabbling at my arms. He stared steadfast while I strangled, understanding that this wasn’t about what he’d done, but what I’d failed to do.

I hadn’t protected Pimlico.

I’d deserved to be shot that night.

If it wasn’t for him, the Chinmoku would’ve killed me and taken Pim. And that truth fucked me up because as much as I wanted to kill this bastard, I also owed him a debt of gratitude.

Men were dogs, and the ones involved with trafficking women ought to be put down with a bullet.

But not me.

And surprisingly, not him.

Beneath his ice-cold temper, there was humanity inside him.

If I needed any other proof, I got it when he glanced to his left, dragging my woozy attention to the audience we’d attracted.

Selix held a gun on a tallish French guy who had a gun trained on me. A standoff while we wrestled on the floor.

Neither Mercer nor myself cared about the men we called our friends. It was the women we called our soulmates who mattered.

Pim stood beside a woman slightly taller than her, their faces white and lips bitten. They hadn’t intervened, but their matching terror spoke of panic barely kept in check.

The blonde couldn’t tear her eyes off Mercer, her hands clutching at the baby crying on her hip.

Shit.

A baby.

Mercer is a goddamn father.

My fingers loosened around his throat, and my mind flickered, unable to fight the tug of blackness.

Feeling my pressure fall from around his larynx, Mercer shoved me off him and stood.

I followed even though it took everything I had left.

Every last shred of energy to stand, face my enemy, and swing one last time.

I swung.

I missed.

I lost consciousness and fell face first into oblivion.

* * * * *

The thick cesspool of fever broke just enough for me to crack open my eyes.

My heart galloped, searching for more energy to finish this fight. But I didn’t wake on hard marble. And no bloody Frenchman waited to kick my ass.

The softest mattress cushioned me, and a gentle hand cupped my cheek.

Voices reached my ears before my vision cleared.

“I don’t know. Should we call Michaels?” Pim’s touch shook on my skin. “I knew he shouldn’t have done this. Look at him.” A catch in her voice hinted at a mix of rage and tears.

Goddammit, the fight couldn’t be over. I couldn’t be the pussy who passed out. I couldn’t be the stupid little invalid comaed in bed.

Slowly, I shifted on the pillows, moving away from Pim’s stroke.

Christ, that hurts.

She gasped as I groaned under my breath, throbbing with untold agony.

The bed rocked as she threw her arms around me. “Oh, thank goodness, you’re okay.”

Okay?

Of all the different layers of okay, I was at the very bottom of the spectrum.

Fuck, everything hurt.

I didn’t hurt this much when I’d almost drowned in the harbour with an open bullet wound attracting sharks. I could barely think without succumbing to the numbing welcome of sleep.

What the hell is going on?

I didn’t even have the energy to hug her back or inhale her gorgeous scent. Every heartbeat pumped blood into swollen extremities and pain-heated joints. Every wound was on fire. Every atom ablaze.

I wanted to snap my fingers and be well again. I wanted a joint. I wanted Pim alone so I could tame my scrambled sick-infested thoughts.

“Gave us a bit of a fright, Prest.”

My eyes coasted upward. I jolted to find Pim wasn’t the only nurse waiting for my ass to wake up.

Selix gave me a curt nod, his finger still latched around the trigger of his gun even though the muzzle pointed at the floor. “Glad you’re awake. We have a bit of a problem.”

Problem?

I wanted to demand he elaborate, but the metallic corrosion of blood on my tongue and pounding jaw meant I only managed an angry grunt.

He cocked his chin at Mercer standing at the foot of my bed with his wife and child. The other Frenchie, with his gun still trained on me, wouldn’t lower it even when Mercer glowered at him in silent reprimand.

The blonde cuddled up to Mercer.

Never tearing his eyes off me, he kissed her hard, smearing his own blood over her mouth in some sinister declaration of love.

The contents of my stomach roiled from the hypocrisy of his kiss and the arrogant way he stared. He thought he’d won.

The bastard.

He hadn’t.

Not by a long shot.

Round two, asshole.

At least, his face hinted at some damage with contusions and cuts.

Doing everything I could to mask how close I was to passing out again, I hoisted myself up to my elbows. The gunshot wound in my shoulder promised to rip me to shreds if I attempted to swing my fists again. “Th-this—” I coughed, wishing I could eradicate the fever-sweat drenching my forehead and dripping into my eyes. “This isn’t over, Mercer.”

His bodyguard twitched, his gun glinting blackly from the chandelier above. “We’ve all decided otherwise while you’ve been taking a nap in la-la land.”

Mercer’s wife smiled as sharp as her husband, handing over her son. Mercer opened his arm gingerly—almost as if he hurt as much as I did—accepting the squirming, fussy child who thankfully had stopped crying but had blotchy tomato red cheeks.

“It’s done, Mr. Prest,” his wife said. “It’s over.”

“It’s not over until I say—”

Pim slotted herself beside me. “El, please, you can’t fight anymore.”

“Don’t undermine me, woman.” I shot her a harsh glower. “Especially in front of my enemies.”

“Are you so sure I’m your enemy, Prest?” Mercer asked, bouncing his son as if the fact he was still covered in blood and bruises didn’t matter when holding fresh innocence.

I refused to answer that.

He was my enemy, but he was also my saviour from the Chinmoku. Not killing him would be my way of showing thanks if he apologised for shooting me in the goddamn shoulder.

I flicked a look at the raised gun in my face. “Funny you say this is over when you still have your goon training a gun on me.”

Mercer narrowed his eyes at his friend, reeling off snipped instructions in French.

The men argued for a few seconds before the henchman lowered his weapon. He didn’t holster it, though, nor did he put the safety on.

Selix gave him a look, keeping his own gun at the ready.

A truce but not quite.

“It’s finished. Whatever this was, it’s over.” Mercer stared pointedly. “You’ve proven I was wrong, and I’ve accepted that you had a right to attack me in my own home. But you also have to accept that I might have tried to kill you, but by doing so, I just so happened to save your life.”

My eyes trailed to the baby boy in Mercer’s arms. He seemed fascinated by the streak of crimson across his dad’s cheek. Chubby fingers wiggled in the air to reach.

Mercer looked down and smirked as if he knew exactly why his offspring was fascinated with gore.

The seemingly normal domestic moment crippled me. It damn well took away all my power and arguments and memory of why I wanted to slaughter this man.

My fever crested hotter, sicker, sucking me back into a haze.

“I think you should go,” the henchman growled. “You’ve enjoyed our hospitality long enough.”

“He’s knocking on death’s door, Franco. We can’t just throw him out.” Mercer clucked his tongue. “Where’s your European welcome?”

“In the gutter the moment he punched you.”

The conversation twisted and turned until I no longer understood any of it. A spiral began in my head, a hypnotic circle—one I had to chase, growing dizzier and lighter the longer I tried to reach the spinning centre.

“Elder…” Pim’s sweet voice sank into my ears, joining me on the downward spin. “Do you want to go home?”

Home…

Yes. Hell, yes.

Where painkillers and weed waited. Where Pim could be naked and I could be strong again.

I liked that idea a lot. It granted enough energy to believe I could walk out of there unassisted—enough lunacy to threaten Frenchmen with guns.

Slurring my words, I said, “Come shnear us again and zhI’ll gut you.”

Mercer nodded, cradling his child. “I have no reason to come after you now I know the truth.”

“The truth I told you on the Phantom. The one you ignored and shot him anyway,” Pim snipped, linking her fingers with mine despite the slippery blood coating me.

“Respectfully, if you’ve been speaking to my wife, you’ll know why I couldn’t trust what you were saying,” Mercer replied in his thick accent.

Pim frowned. “I understand, but perhaps next time…you’ll listen harder.”

“Yes, Q. Listen.” Mercer’s wife piped up, siding with Pim. The two women smiled at each other as if they were on the same team and not on opposite ends of this war.

Mercer glanced as his wife, doing the same as me and trying to understand how our significant others had bonded while we’d done our best to exterminate each other.

And then, nothing else mattered as my heart gave in to the gush of fever, and my mind reached the centre of the swirling circle, and the spinning, spinning, spinning turned into a deep, endless black hole.

I was nothing but agony and fever, holes and hurting.

I tripped into unconscious and failed my woman for the second time.

Gone.

Nothing.

No One.