Luther’s smothered scream sounds like it’s dying in his chest. His nails cut into my arm as he folds over in pain, and it takes herculean strength to yank myself from his grip.

I had to do it. I had to do it.

My brain is stuck on that as I back up, almost tripping over my feet, seeing the way his skin tore open again and again.

I won’t throw up. Won’t do it.

My back slams into the wall in the hallway, and it’s the momentum from the sudden collision that redirects me and gets my feet moving.

I fly down the hallway, lungs burning, and stagger into the bar area. Unfortunately, my very obvious I’m fucked demeanor, along with the cuffs dangling from my wrist, catch attention—probably the sound of my gunshot didn’t help things—and Danvers jumps up from the nearest table.

“Going somewhere, Perry?”

“Ah …” My eyes dart around. “I’m trying to.”

“Well, why don’t you—” Danvers doesn’t finish what he was going to say before he’s shoved from behind. One of Onyx’s friends—I want to say Viktor—lands on top of him and sends a barrage of punches down on Danvers’s head.

It’s like a spark in a gun barrel.

Viktor’s friends immediately jump into the fray, and familiar faces from Lethal Poison join them. There are chairs thrown, glass smashed, tables upended, and I watch for too much longer than someone who should be running should watch.

It’s not until there’s noise from behind me that I jump forward and run.

Dodging fists, shaking off hands that cling to my ankles, trying not to slip over debris, I’m wheezing and sweating and worried about chafing all over again as the bar I love so very, very much descends into chaos around me.

A guy I swear I’ve done shots with before throws himself at me, and I flinch back in time for him to sail past and hit the ground. Fuck me. Do these guys see a fight and immediately lose their minds?

My hands close over the nearest bar table, and I fling it backward, then break into a sprint.

The door is close.

Closer.

Closer still.

I get my hand on the handle and tug, setting off the golden bells and a screeching “Perry!” behind me.

Then I’m out, running so hard down the street I swear I’m about to go ass over.

St. Clare is in the waiting car, and as soon as I throw myself into the back seat, he banks it into traffic.

Away from Lethal Poison.

And hopefully toward somewhere I can catch my breath.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

ST. CLARE