Pride
Page 49
Ethan grinned at me, radiating pride. Fortunately, he was professional enough to do it where Yarnell couldn’t see.
With everyone in place—Dan and Parker flanking our host, ready to restrain him if the need arose, and Ethan on the edge of the room, my visible backup—I saw no reason to circle the proverbial bush. “Where’s Marc?” I met the potential informant’s gaze, hopefully showing fortitude in the strength of mine.
Yarnell pressed his lips together and smiled at me. The arrogant bastard!
I growled deep in my throat, and stepped within his immediate reach to show I wasn’t scared of him, in spite of the six inches and at least sixty pounds he had over me. “We know Kevin sent you to clean up Eckard’s mess. So just tell me where they took Marc, and we’ll get out of your fur.”
“I’m not telling you shit, bitch.” Yarnell’s pale brown eyes sparkled; he enjoyed pissing me off.
“Last chance.” My hands curled into fists at my sides, and the motion drew his gaze downward. “Tell me where they took him, or we’re going to find out which breaks first—your face or my fist.”
In the past, the thought of beating information out of a witness—even a hostile one—had made me sick to my stomach. Though I’d often seen Marc do that very thing, my most frequent offensive weapon was my mouth, rather than my fists, so I was mildly surprised by my own steady stance. Rather than nausea or nerves, I felt only desperate fear and rage, both growing by the second. They swallowed my weaker emotions, diverting all energy to the task at hand.
Thank goodness.
But Yarnell could not be shaken. He watched me steadily, silently daring me to act.
I crouched, and my foot flew, hard and fast. The motion was a blur of denim and black leather. The steel toe of my boot slammed into his left side. He staggered to his right, absorbing the force of my blow, and I actually heard his rib crack.
Yarnell dropped to the floor in front of the couch, one hand pressed to his side, but his lips were stubbornly sealed against a cry of pain, as if to show that he was stronger than me.
“Pick him up.” I was surprised by the cold, commanding quality of my voice, and so was Parker. He eyed me with lifted eyebrows while he hauled Yarnell to his feet, then let him go. “Where’s Marc?”
“Bitch, you think you scare me?” The stray sucked in a breath and flinched at the pain, but dropped his hands, as if by denying the injury he could deny the pain. “You can kick me all night long, but I’m only going to say this one thing—Marc Ramos is a murderer, and a fucking traitor, and he got what he damn well deserved.”
“I don’t have time to convince you otherwise.” I pivoted on one foot this time, throwing all my rage into a sloppy-but-strong roundhouse. My boot caught him near the same spot, and dimly I heard another snap.
Yarnell’s face went pale, and he hunched over in pain, but his smile never faltered. Dan stepped forward to catch him in case he fell, but Yarnell slapped his hand away. “You want to know where Marc is?” he spit, glaring at me, fists clenched at his sides.
I nodded, not daring to hope he’d actually answer.
“He’s in a hole, four feet deep in the frozen ground. Your boyfriend’s dead. And like I said, he got exactly what he deserved.”
Stunned, I staggered back a step, choking on a cry of anguish until my throat burned. But the pain went much deeper than that. It hurt all the way through my heart and into my soul.
No! He was lying. Trying to throw me off. He had to be.
For a moment, I could do nothing but breathe through the shock and pain ripping into me like a full-body cramp, ending in a bolt of agony in my throat, and behind my eyes. Ethan reached for me. I sucked in a deep breath and forced my head upright, knocking his hand away. I was fine. And so was Marc.
Yarnell came into focus before me, the browns and blues of his clothes oddly muted. But I only had eyes for his face, that leering grin, those smug eyes fueling my rush of rage.
A feline growl tore free from my throat and I rushed him, fists flying. His hands shot up in defense, but mine landed first. My right fist hit his chin, followed by a left to the ribs. Then another right, and another left.
He swung at me, but he was hurt and I was too fast, and it took most of his energy to block my fists. Only one of his blows landed, on my left side.
I roared in fury and slammed my knee into his groin. Yarnell hit the carpet, one hand clutching his crotch, the other protecting his head, and still I swung at him.
Hands grabbed my upper arms from behind, lifting me off him. So I kicked instead. My right foot hit his left side, then my left slammed into his thigh, and his whole leg spasmed.
“Faythe!” Ethan dragged me backward, wrapping his arms around me from behind, pinning me to him as I struggled wildly. Tears poured down my face, though I had no memory of crying. “Faythe, stop kicking!”
I went still—limp in my brother’s arms. He set me on the floor, then turned me to face him, wiping my cheeks with his bare palms. His eyes searched mine, then widened in surprise, and that’s when I realized mine had Shifted. “You okay?”
“No.” I wiped the damp spots he’d missed, and vaguely noted that my voice was oddly deep and rumbly. My throat had Shifted, too, at least in part. “But thanks.” He nodded, and I turned back to Yarnell, who lay on the floor with blood dripping from his nose and smeared across a cut on his cheek. “Pick him up.”
Parker glanced at me in surprise over the sound of my voice, then leaned down to oblige me. But Dan hesitated. “Faythe, I think he’s had enough.”
With everyone in place—Dan and Parker flanking our host, ready to restrain him if the need arose, and Ethan on the edge of the room, my visible backup—I saw no reason to circle the proverbial bush. “Where’s Marc?” I met the potential informant’s gaze, hopefully showing fortitude in the strength of mine.
Yarnell pressed his lips together and smiled at me. The arrogant bastard!
I growled deep in my throat, and stepped within his immediate reach to show I wasn’t scared of him, in spite of the six inches and at least sixty pounds he had over me. “We know Kevin sent you to clean up Eckard’s mess. So just tell me where they took Marc, and we’ll get out of your fur.”
“I’m not telling you shit, bitch.” Yarnell’s pale brown eyes sparkled; he enjoyed pissing me off.
“Last chance.” My hands curled into fists at my sides, and the motion drew his gaze downward. “Tell me where they took him, or we’re going to find out which breaks first—your face or my fist.”
In the past, the thought of beating information out of a witness—even a hostile one—had made me sick to my stomach. Though I’d often seen Marc do that very thing, my most frequent offensive weapon was my mouth, rather than my fists, so I was mildly surprised by my own steady stance. Rather than nausea or nerves, I felt only desperate fear and rage, both growing by the second. They swallowed my weaker emotions, diverting all energy to the task at hand.
Thank goodness.
But Yarnell could not be shaken. He watched me steadily, silently daring me to act.
I crouched, and my foot flew, hard and fast. The motion was a blur of denim and black leather. The steel toe of my boot slammed into his left side. He staggered to his right, absorbing the force of my blow, and I actually heard his rib crack.
Yarnell dropped to the floor in front of the couch, one hand pressed to his side, but his lips were stubbornly sealed against a cry of pain, as if to show that he was stronger than me.
“Pick him up.” I was surprised by the cold, commanding quality of my voice, and so was Parker. He eyed me with lifted eyebrows while he hauled Yarnell to his feet, then let him go. “Where’s Marc?”
“Bitch, you think you scare me?” The stray sucked in a breath and flinched at the pain, but dropped his hands, as if by denying the injury he could deny the pain. “You can kick me all night long, but I’m only going to say this one thing—Marc Ramos is a murderer, and a fucking traitor, and he got what he damn well deserved.”
“I don’t have time to convince you otherwise.” I pivoted on one foot this time, throwing all my rage into a sloppy-but-strong roundhouse. My boot caught him near the same spot, and dimly I heard another snap.
Yarnell’s face went pale, and he hunched over in pain, but his smile never faltered. Dan stepped forward to catch him in case he fell, but Yarnell slapped his hand away. “You want to know where Marc is?” he spit, glaring at me, fists clenched at his sides.
I nodded, not daring to hope he’d actually answer.
“He’s in a hole, four feet deep in the frozen ground. Your boyfriend’s dead. And like I said, he got exactly what he deserved.”
Stunned, I staggered back a step, choking on a cry of anguish until my throat burned. But the pain went much deeper than that. It hurt all the way through my heart and into my soul.
No! He was lying. Trying to throw me off. He had to be.
For a moment, I could do nothing but breathe through the shock and pain ripping into me like a full-body cramp, ending in a bolt of agony in my throat, and behind my eyes. Ethan reached for me. I sucked in a deep breath and forced my head upright, knocking his hand away. I was fine. And so was Marc.
Yarnell came into focus before me, the browns and blues of his clothes oddly muted. But I only had eyes for his face, that leering grin, those smug eyes fueling my rush of rage.
A feline growl tore free from my throat and I rushed him, fists flying. His hands shot up in defense, but mine landed first. My right fist hit his chin, followed by a left to the ribs. Then another right, and another left.
He swung at me, but he was hurt and I was too fast, and it took most of his energy to block my fists. Only one of his blows landed, on my left side.
I roared in fury and slammed my knee into his groin. Yarnell hit the carpet, one hand clutching his crotch, the other protecting his head, and still I swung at him.
Hands grabbed my upper arms from behind, lifting me off him. So I kicked instead. My right foot hit his left side, then my left slammed into his thigh, and his whole leg spasmed.
“Faythe!” Ethan dragged me backward, wrapping his arms around me from behind, pinning me to him as I struggled wildly. Tears poured down my face, though I had no memory of crying. “Faythe, stop kicking!”
I went still—limp in my brother’s arms. He set me on the floor, then turned me to face him, wiping my cheeks with his bare palms. His eyes searched mine, then widened in surprise, and that’s when I realized mine had Shifted. “You okay?”
“No.” I wiped the damp spots he’d missed, and vaguely noted that my voice was oddly deep and rumbly. My throat had Shifted, too, at least in part. “But thanks.” He nodded, and I turned back to Yarnell, who lay on the floor with blood dripping from his nose and smeared across a cut on his cheek. “Pick him up.”
Parker glanced at me in surprise over the sound of my voice, then leaned down to oblige me. But Dan hesitated. “Faythe, I think he’s had enough.”
