Anteros allowed himself three heartbeats after Frankie fell. One to make sure she was still breathing. Another to steady his own. A third to control the scream in his chest, to manually stifle the sound that threatened to rage free.

“She was always just some cunt,” Anteros said with a slight warble. He shrugged, shoulders feeling broken with the movement, and put the knife back into his waistband. He used every ounce of his willpower to avoid looking at Frankie. She’d screamed when the knife broke the skin, but now she wasn’t making any noise.

It should have been just a nick, but maybe he’d missed and made a mistake. He’d tried not to hit any major arteries or bones while still making it look real. She shouldn’t be bleeding profusely and if she was, he’d fucked up.

Crazy A laughed. “You fucking dumbass. Do you take me for some kind of idiot? Do you really think I would just accept that and move on? After everything? After the fucking docks?”

Anteros ground his jaw. It would have been nice if that worked, but no he hadn’t really thought it would. Still, it was his only hope to save her. If he hadn’t stabbed Frankie, Crazy A would have shot her.

Now he had time.

And a knife.

“I know what love looks like. Perhaps you’ve forgotten.” Crazy A’s voice was so bitter and serrated it was hardly recognizable. The gun trembled in his hand. He was losing himself.

There it was, Anteros’s opening, the weakness he could exploit. Crazy A was losing his steel. Then again, Crazy A had always been weak when it came to this. At least Anteros could understand now.

“I just wanted to see if you would do it.” Crazy A did a loop around the library, muttering things Anteros couldn’t hear. He ran the barrel of his gun along the books in the shelves, knocking them to the plush rug. “And you did!” He turned around to aim his gun back at Anteros.

“None of this matters,” Nikolai cut in, pointing his gun at Crazy A. “We had a plan. We’re here to kill him and get out.”

Crazy A exhaled through his nostrils, long and slow. Then before the boy could react, Crazy A shot him in the arm. Nikolai yelped, dropped his gun, and clutched his bleeding arm.

“Lucia was right, your vendetta has ruined this,” Nikolai hissed. Blood trickled through his fingers like water escaping through a dam. Anteros watched the exchange silently, thinking the boy got off easy. You never pointed a gun at Crazy A unless you were ready to pull the trigger.

“I think I’m through with your whining.” Crazy A gestured toward the exit with his gun. “Go on. Get out of here, slave boy.” Nikolai’s gaze flicked from Anteros, to the gun he’d dropped, back to Crazy A. His intention was obvious. Apparently Crazy A thought so as well, because he taunted, “I was going to let you live. I know how fucking happy your death will make him…” Crazy A looked at Anteros, then back to Nikolai. “But go on, give me a reason to change my mind.”

Nikolai slowly backed up until he was out of the room, his hatred and frustration palpable. Anteros felt it too, a fury in his gut so hot the smoke clogged his lungs. With gritted teeth, he had to watch Nikolai escape, couldn’t do shit about it. The boy who’d somehow wormed his way into a place of affection—a place no one man had ever been—then betrayed him, was getting away. When the elevator doors dinged, Anteros’s jaw hurt so bad from grinding, he knew it would be sore.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Crazy A said, drawing his attention back. He’d gone to stand by Frankie and now curled his fingers around her bicep. He tugged her off the floor until she was inches off the ground, ends of her hair whispering against the plush red rug. She screamed in pain, other hand going to her side.

Suddenly Nikolai was barely a blip in his mind.

“You get a choice—” Crazy A broke off with a grunt as he readjusted his grip on Frankie, pulling out his gun’s magazine and emptying the clip. The bullets fell like metal raindrops on the rug, and dread filled Anteros’s gut. “You get a choice,” he continued, double checking the magazine and clicking it back into place. “Mercy or pain—but first, you tell her the fucking story.” He threw Anteros the pistol, reaching into his waistband to pull out another as the one he’d thrown sailed through the air.

Anteros caught it easily and aimed it at Crazy A without hesitation. “Maybe I’ll shoot you instead.”

Crazy A laughed. “Wow, how history repeats itself.” With a grunt, Crazy A adjusted his grip on Frankie then reached into his waistband and pulled out another gun, aiming it at Anteros. “If you try, I’ll shoot you first and spend days making her wish she was dead.”

“I’ll still get a shot on you,” Anteros ground out.

“If you want to gamble with her life, go for it. I have nothing to lose.” Crazy A grinned maniacally. “You’re dying anyway, Boss. You just get to choose whether she goes easy, first.”

Anteros rubbed the Glock’s pebbly handle, trying to work out a plan. Everything had gone to shit. Their plan was a smoldering pile of garbage. The only silver lining was that Frankie was only dripping a small amount of blood on the floor and Crazy A hadn’t noticed. She’d require stitches, but she would be fine—if he figured out a way to finish this without killing her.

“Tell her the goddamn story or I won’t give you the choice, Boss.” Crazy A tugged at Frankie again—causing her to groan in pain—then shook the Glock aimed at Anteros for emphasis. Her body was held up by sheer force of will by Crazy A and the minute he let go, she would drop to the floor. Anteros wanted to assure her everything would be okay, but he couldn’t.

“Anteros, please, just do it.” Frankie’s sideways, exhausted gaze met his. A second after she spoke, Crazy A hit her over the head with his gun.

“Good dogs learn to speak when spoken to,” he hissed, and Frankie groaned again. Anteros saw red, absolute fucking crimson. He gripped the trigger so hard the bone in his finger ached.

“Tick fucking tock,” Crazy A said. The gun was heavy in his hand, but he couldn’t do shit with it. The only thing Anteros could think of was getting more time, so he prepared to retell the story to Frankie.

* * *

“Joseph,” Crazy A growled as Anteros finished. “His name was Joseph, but you probably never learned that.” Crazy A unceremoniously dropped Frankie. He heard the thud, heard her small moan of pain, but he couldn’t look. It nearly fucking tore him in two that he couldn’t check to see if she was okay, but he had to keep his trigger and eyes on Crazy A.

“No,” Anteros said. “I didn’t.” Out of his periphery he saw Frankie roll over, push books out of her way, and crawl toward him.

He exhaled.

She was okay.

“You knew the rules,” Anteros continued as Frankie got closer. “My hands were tied.” It sounded weak, even to him, but it wasn’t about truth, it was about distraction.

“You could have broken the rules.” Crazy A laughed brokenly just as Frankie reached Anteros’s feet, falling to a heap with one hand loosely gripping his ankle. That touch at his ankle nearly incapacitated him with fury and murder. Those light little fingers always tore at his skin and ripped his flesh with passion, but now they only weakly grasped it. It took all his focus to remain steady.

Crazy A hadn’t noticed her yet. The look in his eyes was the same he’d had all those years ago.

He was blinded by pain.

“It’s pretty fucking simple,” Crazy A gritted. “The rules were unbreakable, until they weren’t.”

“You’re right,” Anteros said. “I’m sorry. It never should have—”

“Don’t try to distract me again with your fucking apologies,” Crazy A interrupted, thin hair falling over his face as he whipped his head in anger. His glare zeroed in on Anteros’s feet, at Frankie, and Anteros stepped forward, doing his best to shield her.

Adrenaline twisted his gut wondering if this would be the moment Crazy A cracked, but the man only took a few deep breaths, pushed his hair back, and grinned.

“Now that she knows the true monster you are, we can get back on track. So, Boss, mercy or pain?”

* * *

Gripping the gun, Anteros slowly turned back to Frankie. She got to her elbows, fireplace crackling to her left, dying flames illuminating her skin a soft orange. After loving Frankie, Anteros knew what a treacherous, terrible thing killing Alcide’s love—Joseph—was. Crazy A made it clear it was too late for reparation, though.

“What are you doing?” she asked, eyes flickering to the Glock. Anteros didn’t know the answer to her question. He couldn’t see a way out of this.

“We can come to a deal, Alcide,” Anteros attempted to negotiate, eyes still on Frankie. “Money, cars—name it.”

“There’s nothing you can give me that I want more than this,” Crazy A replied. “I’d end up lighting your collection of douchebro cars on fire, anyway.”

“Maybe—” Crazy A discharged a bullet into the floor beside Frankie, cutting Anteros’s words at the quick. She screamed, throwing her hands to her face.

“Jesus fuck I’m doing it!” Anteros yelled, but Crazy A let loose a barrage of bullets. Frankie scrambled backward until she reached the bookcase. She put her hands behind her back, realizing she was out of options. Crazy A shot bullets into the shelves above her head.

The books exploded, paper and leather bits flying into the air like confetti. When it was over, shreds of paper floated ethereally around them. Frankie peered through slits in her hands. Anteros whirled around, aiming his gun at Crazy A.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Mercy or pain, Boss, choose quickly.” Crazy A fired one more shot at the bookshelf and a single book exploded. Anteros ground his jaw, fighting the urge to raise the gun and shoot Crazy A. Crazy A raised an eyebrow, working out what Anteros was thinking, and in response, moved his arm a little to the left so his barrel was directly aimed at Frankie.

With a low growl, Anteros turned back to Frankie. Anteros couldn’t shoot her, but Crazy A wasn’t someone to gamble with. If Anteros turned on him, it would get bloody fast. If Crazy A killed Frankie, Anteros would go crazy, just like Alcide had.

Fuck.

For once in his life, Anteros didn’t see the next move. Anteros aimed the Glock at her head, buying more time.

“Wait,” she said, splaying a hand against the bookcase. She raised the other, pressing it to her chest. “Just wait a second.” Her voice was breathless, arm wobbly. The blood at her side darkened her scarlet dress, dripping onto the beads like a broken wine bottle.

“When I shot Joseph, he at least had the dignity to stay silent.” Crazy A’s cool voice drifted over Anteros’s back, frosting his shoulder. Frankie’s grim stare captured his while Anteros’s brows deepened, working out the problem in his head. If he turned and shot, Crazy A would immediately shoot him. He would shield Frankie, but they were so close the bullet would go right through him and pierce her. He could tackle Crazy A and throw off his aim, but couldn’t guarantee his death.

All the options were fucking shit.

“If you don’t finish it within the next minute,” Crazy A said, “I’ll shoot you in the leg and make you watch.”

“I’m fucking doing it,” Anteros barked. He was so busy trying to work out the problem that he didn’t notice Frankie already had. The lines on her brow had smoothed and her watery eyes turned stone. She lowered a hand into her breast, slowly pulling out a small, gold gun.

A fucking gun.

Crazy A sniped at him to hurry up, oblivious as Frankie raised the small revolver. Before Anteros could wonder where she’d gotten it, she aimed. The barrel was right at his heart and it looked like she was going to shoot him. The air stilled, movements stuck in molasses, then Frankie pivoted.

One, two, three times Frankie fired. The bullets whizzed so close they grazed the fabric on his arm. Anteros spun around with them. Two of the bullets had missed Crazy A completely, but one landed—the only one that mattered.

Crazy A realized what was happening a second too late to save himself, but soon enough to fire. With a loud pop like a firework, he pulled the trigger on his dying breath. Burning pain in his shoulder let Anteros know he’d been hit, but it was light enough that he knew it only pierced his flesh. Anteros followed the bullet, fire in his heart as it narrowly avoided Frankie, landing with a final punch into the bookshelf, just above her scalp.

Assured Frankie was safe, Anteros turned back to Crazy A. One bullet was lodged into his forehead, gold rim protruding from his skin as a thin trail of blood dripped down. His mouth was a slack-jawed O, gun still gripped weakly in his hand. His knees buckled, his legs gave, and he fell face forward onto a pile of books.

It was overkill, but Anteros discharged his only bullet into Crazy A’s back anyway. When the only sound left was the clicking of the empty cartridge, Anteros went to Frankie. She was on the verge of passing out, slunk against the bookshelf. The wound at her side had grown, her entire left side now drenched a deep merlot.

“Bay. Of. Pigs.” Frankie took a deep breath between each word, then slid to the floor.