Free Retribution by Gemma James

the futility of my situation fisted my heart. He pulled my head up, allowed me a shallow breath, and then forced my face into the cushion again. I was going to die. The certainty of it gripped me, and I was no longer scared of being raped. Death was far worse. Death would take me away from Eve.
    Eve .
    Would he leave me like this? Lifeless for her to find?
    Or would he disappear with her?
    Head up . . . another gasp of air . . . then lightheaded darkness.
    A loud, splintering crash tore through the apartment, and his hold on my head lifted. With a hoarse sob, I jerked my face up and sucked in air. Sucked it in until my lungs were full and near bursting. A grunt sounded, followed by a bang against the wall, and I rolled around to find Gage and my ex locked in a struggle. Eve screamed from her bedroom, tiny fists pounding on the door, and the chair shook under the force. I yanked at the rope binding my wrists, desperate to get to her, but the binding wouldn’t budge.
    “Stop it!” I yelled as the barrel inched toward Gage’s head. They were engaged in a war, both exerting their strength to gain control of the gun. Gage was taller, but Rick had some bulk on him. He managed to kick free of Rick’s hold for a moment, and Rick jumped to his feet and swung the gun in my direction. Time stopped as I stared past the barrel into his cold eyes. Nothing lurked in their depths; no regret, no anger. Just . . . nothing.
    How had I missed this side of him all those years ago? The side of him that ignored his daughter’s screams as he prepared to kill me once and for all?
    “Please,” I whispered, one last plea for mercy.
    He cocked the gun.
    Gage leaped into action, face distorted in the scariest mask of rage I’d ever seen. He charged Rick, a bull with red in his sights. They fell to the floor again, rolling, fists pounding, frantic fingers scrambling in a tug-of-war for the gun. The blast tore through the air just as the blaring sirens became noticeable.
    Rick got to his feet and staggered back. He focused on the blood swallowing the front of his jacket, and for a moment he was entranced by it, the gun dangling from his fingers in distraction. And then he focused his attention on the broken door. The screeching sirens grew louder with every second.
    He bolted, and I took in Gage’s still form lying a few feet from me, watched the crimson spread across my carpet, and the sirens drowned out the hysterical cries of an innocent three-year-old.
    And I welcomed blackness.

12. T HE P RICE OF S IN
    Snow trickled from the sky three days after Gage was shot. Not so much that driving in it was impossible, but enough to cause a stir of excitement. Normally, I would have been out in the wintery flakes like everyone else, throwing snowballs at Eve while we built a snowman. I watched the wintery weather through the window of the cheap motel we’d been hiding in. Eve was taking a late morning nap. Check out time was an hour away.
    I couldn’t bring myself to move. I was too busy torturing myself with what-ifs, too busy being a coward because I still didn’t know if Gage had lived or died. Three days . . . and I didn’t know if he’d died saving our lives. What kind of person did that make me? I’d left the emergency room three nights ago and hadn’t looked back, and my phone had been powered off since. Ian was probably frantic by now trying to get ahold of me. But reality wouldn’t step aside forever. I reached for my cell and switched it on, and I dialed Ian’s number. He answered immediately.
    “Where are you?”
    “In a motel.”
    “I’ve been going out of my mind, Kayla. You freaking disappeared from the ER. Don’t do that to me again.”
    “Is . . .” I swallowed and tried again. “Is he okay?”
    “He’s going to make it. They had to operate, but he’s recovering.” A train’s horn blasted in the background, and I released a breath. “Where are you?” he asked.
    I blinked a tear down my cheek. “Doesn’t matter.