Craving The Wrong Brother (Sloane and Knox) novel Chapter 144

Finn stays quiet after that, but his glare is all attitude and wounded pride. He rubs his cheek and mutters something under his breath that sounds like cursing in three different languages.

I turn back to Knox, whose attention hasn’t wavered from the pallets where Mateo is still hiding.

Knox's men are scattered around the room, some standing and breathing hard, some slumped against walls or columns, all injured or catching their breath or both. They are all waiting, looking to Knox for direction.

Mateo is still alive. Still crouched behind that barricade of his. I can see part of his shadow through a gap in the pallets and can hear his labored breathing. And Knox seems to get weaker every passing moment.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” I whisper, pressing harder against his wound. The blood keeps coming, seeping through my fingers no matter how much pressure I apply.

“No hospital,” Knox says. “My men will patch me up. Besides, I promised you the honor, remember?”

He slides his gun into my hand.

“Mateo has run out of bullets. Now, it's your turn to be generous and lend him some. Stick them right in his chest.”

“I—”

“Just like I showed you,” he continues, his eyes never leaving the pallets. “Don’t hesitate. Don’t look at his face if you can help it. Just pull the trigger and make it count.”

My fingers tighten around the grip.

Knox speaks again, louder this time. “It’s over, Mateo. Time to come out.”

Mateo doesn’t show, neither does he say a word.

“I know you’re hurt,” Knox continues, his tone almost conversational. “I know you’re bleeding. Make this easy on yourself.”

Still nothing.

“Shoot the box,” Knox tells me, nodding toward the pallets.

I raise the gun and aim at the largest box I can see. Then I pull the trigger.

The shot hits the cardboard with a satisfying thunk, and Mateo swears loudly, a string of profanity that would make a sailor blush.

“Hold your fire!” he yells. “I’m coming out! Don’t shoot!”

Slowly, he rises from behind his makeshift fortress. His hands are behind his back in a gesture that looks almost sheepish. His legs are unsteady, wobbling without his cane.

“Show your hands,” Knox commands. “Both of them. Now.”

“Okay. Okay.” Mateo raises his right hand. The tiny silver handgun he used to shoot Knox falls from his fingers and clatters to the floor.

He starts to lift his other hand, and before I can see what's in it, Knox lunges.

Not at Mateo.

At me.

Knox’s body slams into mine, knocking me backward.

The grenade hits the floor and explodes.

It’s loud. One second, I’m standing there holding a gun that feels too heavy in my hands, and the next, the world shatters into a million razor-sharp pieces.

The pressure knocks the breath out of my lungs. It's just… pain. Pure, undiluted agony. And ringing. My ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton soaked in gasoline and set on fire at the same time.

Everything goes white, then gray, then a muddy brown that might be blood or dirt or both.

I don’t know how long I lie there. Could be seconds. Could be minutes. Could be hours for all I know. Time doesn’t seem to work the same way anymore. The dust is as thick as fog, coating my lips, my eyes, the inside of my mouth until I can barely breathe without choking. It tastes like concrete and twisted metal and something that might be fire or fear.