Rachel Dyken - Elect

“You wouldn’t kill me.”

“I would.” I blinked. “In fact, the idea gets more and more enticing the longer I look at your shit-eating face.”

Faust’s nostrils flared. Impatient, I punched him in the nose and grabbed his shirt again before he fell. “Think, Faust.”

“Nicolosi,” he spat. “The Nicolosi family is investigating. They arrived two days ago.”

Stunned, I could only hold him in place. Forget killing him; I wanted to jump out the window myself.

Any family but the Nicolosis. I’d thought they’d send one of the original Sicilian families, but not the original family.

Not the family that Trace’s grandfather had singlehandedly forced out of America—when they had enough money and power to have a say. What was worse—our family had helped them do it. Granted that was all before the Romeo and Juliet drama had exploded onto the scene with all of our parents, but still.

Son of a bitch.

“I can tell by your horrified expression you were hoping for someone else,” Faust grunted.

I pulled him back into the classroom and punched him so hard in the jaw that he fell into a cold heap on the floor. I wiped my bloody hands on my jeans and walked out of the room.

Mr. Ryan was waiting in the hall. “Do I even want to know?”

“Nah…” I shook my head and offered him a smile. “That may just get you killed.”

“Is there a body in my classroom?” His tone was calm, as if he were asking if I wanted a drink of water or a can of soda.

“I couldn’t say.” I shrugged. “But maybe cancel the rest of your afternoon classes.”

Mr. Ryan nodded and pulled out his phone. “Sending the e-mail now. I’ll put a note on the door, too.”

“Thanks.” I’d made it halfway down the hall when Mr. Ryan’s voice rang out.

“You, uh, have a knife sticking out of your leg.”

Shit. I looked down. So that was why Faust was smiling. Didn’t feel it. I was so used to getting the crap beat out of me that I rarely reacted when attacked. When you react out of pain or fear, you pause, giving your enemy time to kill you. “So I do, Mr. Ryan. Have a good day.”

I reached down and pulled the small knife from my thigh and wiped the blood on my jeans. I needed to change before Trace saw me. She would flip.

I seriously needed to stop pissing Nixon off, but it had been a knee-jerk reaction, kissing Trace on the hand. If he didn’t want me playing friendly with his girlfriend, he shouldn’t have ordered me to be her personal bodyguard every freaking day of the school week.

I was in a living hell and nobody knew it but me.

“Can we skip?” Trace asked as we walked to her third class of the day. It was a KI class, one I knew she hated because it was all about self-defense. To be honest, she needed that and more, so I put my foot down even though her gorgeous smile was killing me inside.

“Nope.” I put my arm around her. “Just imagine Phoenix’s face when you’re punching Spike.”

Trace shuddered beneath my arm. “Yeah, when I imagine Phoenix I have a knife to his balls. Pretty sure that would either scar Spike for life or get me kicked out of Elite.”

“Fair enough.” I pulled her closer. “He’s taken care of, Trace. Nobody’s seen him in two weeks. He’s either in hiding or across the Atlantic. He’s not stupid enough to attack you again. Let Nixon do his job. We may not be able to kill him for what he did to you—but we sure as hell can make his life a bitch.”

Trace nodded, but didn’t say anything. I knew she was still traumatized over the whole ordeal. Shit, I was still traumatized and I’d done my fair share of dirty work in the name of the Abandonato family. Finding her on the floor with her clothes bloody and ripped from her body was one of the most horrifying experiences of my life.

I still wanted to kill Phoenix.

But Nixon wouldn’t let me.

It had to do with some sort of code about killing off direct descendants of mafia bosses and them being next in line. Considering Phoenix’s dad got a bullet to his head a few weeks ago by Trace’s grandfather, our hands were literally tied.

Didn’t mean I couldn’t dream about his death every freaking day. It seemed unfair that the bastard could breathe the same air as Trace, let alone walk around as if he hadn’t tried to kill her.

“You’re late,” Trace’s professor announced when we walked in.

“My fault,” I lied. “My shoe was untied, I fell, pulled Trace down with me, got her shirt all—muddy, and she had to go change.”

Professors hated me. Nixon was the golden boy, kind of like a god around this place. I was just the assistant, the one who did the dirty work. Didn’t help that my grades were less than stellar ever since I’d been trying to get homework done while Trace slept. It was the only free time I had.

Keeping her safe was a full-time job. Not that I was complaining.

The professor’s sharp eyes focused on me with chilling indifference. “You’re wearing boots without strings, the sun’s shining, and one more tardy and your grade falls, Tracey.”

“Ouch,” I mumbled next to her, “I can order a hit on any professor you want, just remember that.” I patted her back and winked at the professor.

Trace rolled her eyes, but it did make her smile.

“Your partner has fallen ill, so you’ll be working with Chase today.” With that, the cranky professor walked to the front of the room. “Now, today we’re working on footwork and self-defense techniques. Instruction packets are on the desk; be sure to work through every scenario before you leave.”

Trace grumbled beside me and went to fetch a packet. Her face fell when she read the first page. “I-I can’t, Chase. I can’t…”

Suddenly, the Trace I was used to was a shadow of her former self. Shaking, she wrapped her arms around my neck like I was her lifeline, her savior, her everything. As much as I hated seeing her freaked out—my body responded to her proximity like she was my gravity. She gave another shudder. I gently pulled her away and looked into her fear-stricken eyes.

“What the hell?” I grabbed the papers from her and quickly scanned the first scenario.

A guy and girl alone in his apartment. He tries to take advantage of her, she gets away but he’s able to grab her wrist and overpower her on the ground. What do you do?

Freaking hell.

I reached for Trace’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s just you and me, Trace, okay? You’ll power through this, and you know why?”

Her hand shook inside mine.

“Because you’re an Alfero.” I gritted my teeth and pulled her closer to me. “Do Alferos back down?”

“No,” Trace whispered.

“I’m sorry; what was that?”

“Hell no.” She nodded.

“Do you let people walk all over you? Do you let people attack you, Trace?”

“No.” Her nostrils flared as she jerked her hand away from mine and glared.

“Good girl.” I nodded. “Now, try not to forget that it’s me, not Phoenix. I’m really partial to my anatomy, and I’d like to, you know, in the future have kids someday.”

Rolling her eyes, she took a stance next to me. I muttered up a prayer as I quickly tripped her and pushed her down against the mat. She struggled against me, but I held her wrists firmly above her head—just like Phoenix had. Shit, it was killing me. Her face contorted in pain as she closed her eyes, and shook her head back and forth. I waited for the fear to pass—waited for the moment when her body would switch from being terrified to being pissed. But it was hard as hell.

I could shoot a man twice my age in cold blood.

I’ve buried more bodies than I can count.

I’ve grown up around drugs, prostitution, and the gambling underworld.

Nothing—and I mean nothing—had ever been harder to do than forcing Trace to relive one of the worst moments of her life. Nothing was more necessary than that she do it, so I held her. I held her and I leaned in.

“Fight back.”

She squirmed beneath me, I could see the panic welling in her eyes. Maybe I was wrong, maybe she would crumple under the pressure, but she had to learn how to defend herself. As much as I wanted to be—I knew I wasn’t part of her future, I wouldn’t always be able to protect her. I gripped her harder. Trace’s nostrils flared as she took in a few deep breaths.

“Trace,” I whispered hoarsely as her body moved against mine. Shit, I wasn’t counting on my physical response to her, to being so damn near… Swearing, I tried to focus. “Think, Trace, think about how to move my weight, or use it to your advantage.”

Her eyes narrowed, and then she wrapped her leg around me and pulled my body tight against hers, making it so I couldn’t gain any leverage. It was a smart move; most people wasted their energy on trying to get the person off of them, then they gave up.

It was always wise, when in such a situation, to not fight against but fight with. Trace used her other leg to swing it around my body and then slowly pushed me so that I was on my side and she was on top of me. She wasn’t able to gain quite enough leverage, though. In seconds I had her flat on her back again.

In that moment, seeing a bit of sweat pouring down her face, I hated Nixon all over again.

Because he knew he was torturing both of us. He knew how damn difficult it was for me to keep my paws off what wasn’t mine to touch, yet he trusted me enough to put me in the damn situation every day.

Her body felt so right underneath mine, I could almost forget that it wasn’t real—that we weren’t just friends, that we were more. My chest tightened a bit as Trace wrapped her arm around my neck and jerked me down; my mouth hit her cheekbone, not hard, but that touch, that one sizzle of my lips grazing her skin, was enough to send me over the edge.