Page 97 of How to Kill Your Rival

Eliza.

I screw my eyes shut for a second before throwing myself towards the man, distracting him but putting myself directly in his line of fire.

He aims for my head but doesn’t expect me to come at him so quickly and panics. My ears ring as a shot bursts, pain tearing across my shoulder. My knife falls as I crash full-bodied into the man, sending us both flying.

We hit the floor in a puff of broken breath, tussling as I try to free myself from his grip. My knife is just out of reach, and I grimace as I grasp for it.

I get a hand under his forearm and shove as hard as I can, buying myself another half inch towards the knife, but the fucker forces his arm against my throat hard enough that it makes a horrible crunching noise. My vision blurs, and I’m aware that I have about fifteen seconds of useful consciousness remaining before I’m a dead man.

Then a red-haired angel appears above the man and suddenly, I can breathe again.

I drag in a breath, rolling out from under the man in time to see Eliza with a fistful of his hair and the man’s gun in her hand. He must have dropped it when we went down.

Eliza presses the muzzle to his forehead until he tips back on his arse. She doesn’t give any quarter until he’s on his back on the floor, with her knee on his chest and his gun between his eyes.

‘James?’

‘I’m okay. ’Tis but a flesh wound.’ The bullet had only grazed my shoulder. Splitting the skin, but little damage beyond that.

I get to my feet, and she steps back from the man, giving way to me as she keeps the gun on him.

He doesn’t want to talk, naturally.

It only takes three stabs to his torso, picking spots where it’ll do minimal damage for maximum torture time, for him to give me his name. Norman.

I’m methodical about it. I don’t enjoy the torture in our line of work as much as some do. But Norman has the information we need, and I hate disappointing Eliza more than I dislike torture.

Norman breaks in twelve minutes.

‘Yes. Fuck, yes, they have your brother. The tattooed one. He was here. But they moved him. They move him every fucking day.’

‘Where?’ I demand.

Norman looks at Eliza, who presses the gun flush to his temple.

‘A warehouse out in the sticks down near Ayrshire, off a single-track road three miles from the nearest village.’

He cries as he tells us the address and a description of the place. There are four men holding Fraser. All armed.

I enter it into my phone and nod at Eliza.

She looks down at Norman.

‘Thank you,’ she says sweetly, then brings her foot down on his throat with a sickening crunch.

‘Didn’t fancy the gun?’ I ask.

‘Got a feeling we might need the bullets.’

I wince as I stand, my shirt brushing against the cut on my shoulder.

‘You’re bleeding a fair bit,’ she says.

‘I’ll let you play nursemaid when we get home.’

Home. My apartment. Hers. The Hamilton mansion… I’m not sure where my home is now, but it’s wherever Eliza lays her head.

‘Don’t do that again,’ she whispers.