Little Fury: Book 1 of The deadly Little Thing Trilogy
Little Fury: Chapter 1

4 Days Earlier

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck!

I’m going to die in this room.

I’m going to die in this room wearing this tight fucking pencil skirt complete with slit and my favourite Louboutin black stilettos. This outfit, while hot as fuck is going to get me killed.

There are nine people in this room. Myself and eight men. Eight men who have no allegiance to me.

The room is big, with two large windows on the wall I’m in front of, and a desk that sits in between them. I’m standing in my usual spot just left of the enormous mahogany desk with my back to the window.

The room is dark in all forms of the word. The walls are a deep burgundy, and the woods are darkly stained. All the fabrics here are sombre tones of green or brown; There is nothing light in this room. The fabrics, curtains and rugs are made from thick fibres like wool and leather. The heavy fibres only add to the weight of the room. The things done and planned in this room linger here, imprints of the past that you sometimes catch out of the corner of your eye.

Wow, Ava, so poetic in the moments leading up to your probable death.

Internal Ava’s voice is a sarcastic bitch today, apparently.

It’s a stereotypical men’s room where they retire to smoke and drink whiskey. Usually, this room is filled with the scents of cigars, bourbon, men’s aftershave, and sometimes the tangy scent of iron. Today, I miss those scents. Today, it smells like nervous sweat and anxiety.

Oh, my fucking god! Focus!

How the fuck do I get out of here?

The window behind me is the most apparent exit, but it doesn’t open. The things done and discussed in this room do not lend well to having windows that can be opened by anyone all willy-nilly. Extra routes of escape or entry are bad for business.

The two men between me and the door are one of the few bright spots in this situation. Lawrence, the one directly in front of the door, has just recently come back from being shot in the knee. One good kick to that knee, and he’s going down hard. Ty, the one directly between Lawrence and me, is young and inexperienced. Honestly, it’s the best-case scenario for me to get the fuck out of here. Once I’m out of this room, it’s about 30 feet to the front door.

A plan starts to form. I’m not sure if it’s a good plan, but it’s a plan, nonetheless.

I start slowly inching my skirt up my thighs getting the slit high enough to give my legs full mobility. Thankful for the chair obscuring me from view, I slip out of my heels, staying on my toes so my height change and clothing adjustments don’t draw attention.

Everyone here is trying to ignore me and look relaxed like it’s any other day. But the usual hum of the room is missing. The guys in here are too quiet, too still.

I helped him pick and recruit almost every soldier he had. But these eight? I chose none of them. I told Marcus flat out that four of them were bad choices. They had sub par training, and none of them have the ability to remain calm, to not let the tension in their bodies give them away.

Ty is the only one who looks chill, and that’s because he’s an idiot of 19 who has no idea who I am and what I can do. The others know if I get out of here, I’m going to kill every last fucking one of them. The older guys have known me for years. They know who trained Marcus and me. If Ty had any sense in his head, he would realize that Marcus putting eight men in this room to kill me wasn’t an error or overkill.

Marcus is anything but stupid. He doesn’t waste resources.

I give my shoes one last sorrowful look, apologizing for abandoning them. And I go. Ty is on the ground before he even knows what happened. My kick to his side, stealing his breath and breaking a rib, gets him out of my way. Lawrence, however, sees me coming. The sound of surprise that leaves him is akin to a squawk or a grunt. He goes for his gun, but I’m faster. A sweep to his knee, with my leg and he’s on the ground writhing in pain.

The other six wake up, yelling at each other and going for their guns. I’m almost out the door when I hear the first gunshot. A bullet hits my shoulder, and another rips into my side, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I stop, I die. And Harry would be so disappointed in me if all his training went to shit, and I stopped from the pain. But the adrenaline and the knowledge that my life is hanging in the balance keeps me going.

I’m out of the room and out the front door before even one of them has made his way from the room in pursuit of me. I don’t waste time looking behind me. Sprinting across the front lawn faster than one would think this skirt would allow. I can see my car just as I hear Marcus yell for more of his men. The noise of my escape drawing him out.

Looking back for only a moment as I climb into my car, I lock eyes with Marcus. Marcus, the boy I’ve known since we were seven years old. The boy who I thought was my best friend. The man I shared a bed with for years. The man who just very blatantly told me I was no longer a welcome partner in the world I helped him take and rebuild.

My heart breaks for the seven-year-old girl I was. The one who came to a place alone and found someone she thought was just like her.

I floor it. Grateful for the speed of my Audi R8, I make it to the end of the block and turn just as the first car speeds out of Marcus’s drive. I know where I’m heading. It’s the only place Marcus won’t look for me. The one place and person no one knows exists. I grab my phone, toss it out the car window, and keep moving.

Making a series of quick turns, my brain works through as many routes as possible to escape the men pursuing me. LA is a busy city, which is both good and bad. Traffic can both conceal and hinder. But I know this city; I’ve lived here for a while, and like the well-trained little hitman I am, there are multiple escape routes in my brain.

My R8 is far from the only one in the city, a choice I considered when I bought it. Black is my year and model’s most popular colour choice, so it blends well. Ten minutes pass, and there is no high-speed chase involving myself and others I exhale a breath and give myself a mental high five for my expert driving skills, buying me some breathing room.

I reach into my center console and remove my compression bandages. Putting them on while driving will be challenging, but I don’t have a choice. I still have a solid 30-minute drive till I arrive at my destination and to him. I’m able to get the first one over my shoulder reasonably quickly, putting the strap in my mouth and pulling hard to get it as tight as possible. Getting the one over my abdomen to stop the bleeding from my side is trickier. I’m pretty sure the bullet went straight through, but I need to slow the bleeding. After about 3 minutes of struggling, I give in and pull over, using both hands to get it on and done up.

Bandages secured; I grab my burner phone out of the glove box. I drive in the quiet until I’m close, and I make a call. He answers on the second ring, I can hear the smile in his voice. “Hi beautiful, I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight, but this is a delightful surprise.”

“Jake,” I say, cutting him off mid-word. “Jake, I need you to do what I’m about to ask you, no questions asked, no hesitation. I need you to trust me and do it, and I’ll explain when I get to you. Can you do that?”

I’m not sure what he hears in my voice, but whatever it is, he understands I need him to do it and do it now.

“Okay.”

“Go to your garage and move your car out of its spot and onto the street, leave the door open to the side the car was in. Then go back in the house and get your medical bag. I will be there in less than 5 minutes. I have two gunshot wounds. One is a through and through, and the other, the bullet is still in my shoulder.”

“Do it now, Jake,” I snap at him. My voice is hard, but I need him to do what I ask right now and without question.

Wonder what the Doctor would have done had I used that tone with him in the bedroom?

Jake likes control in all things, so being told to do something without him being allowed to ask questions is probably making him angry. I hear the garage door opening and a car starting.

“Jake, I’m hanging up, but I’ll see you shortly. Be ready to close the door the minute I’m in the garage.” he starts to say something, but I’ve already disconnected the call.

I turn onto his street, slowing my speed to below the limit. As soon as I’m in, the door begins to close. Putting the car in park, leaning my head against the headrest; my hands ache from my death grip on the steering wheel. He has my door open, leaning in before I even notice him.

“Jesus, Ava, what the fuck is going on?”

I chuckle at his question. He pulls me from the car and carries me bridal style through the garage into the connected house.

Jake sets me on his kitchen counter and steps between my legs, instantly going into doctor mode. He looks over my face and chest, my side where the bullet exited. Jake moves from between my legs to the edge of the counter and gently nudges me to turn, giving him better access to my back. He asks no questions as he works, and that, I replace surprising.

Coming around to my front, he removes the compression bandage from my shoulder, eyeing it curiously. “I had them made for me. I cut my leg badly one time while surfing, and I used my scuba jacket sleeve to compress the wound and to slow the bleeding until I could get to a doctor to have it stitched. It worked well, so I had some made for any future incidents.”

He doesn’t ask me any follow-up questions even though he wants to. He has a tight reign on himself, I think he’s worried to spook me. His dominant side is at war with his doctor’s side. The doctor in him needs to fix me. To tend my wounds the way he wants. The boyfriend in him is supportive and understanding, knowing that I’m not ready to talk about what happened.

The dominant alpha in him? Well, he is working ridiculously hard to suppress his urge to wrap a hand around my throat and force answers from me. He looks at me for a moment. Pausing his inspection of my shoulder, he aggressively exhales out of his nose, and I notice his left eye twitch. His carefully controlled anger is bubbling below the surface, and he is not enjoying it.

I bet his hand is fucking twitching to show my ass just how little he is enjoying this situation.

Jake is a very structured man and keeps his life very predictable. This situation must be testing every ‘keep calm’ technique he has.

When he was young, his temper and poor impulse control got him in trouble a lot. So, he learned that structure and predictability kept him and his life calm. He plays sports and works out a ton. He played football and was on the wrestling team in high school. A wrestling scholarship put him through medical school. Now, he is a general surgeon at one of the best hospitals in the country.

“Ava, I need to get this bullet out, and I’m assuming going to the hospital and being in an actual operating room is not something you’re going to let happen?”

“You would be correct there big guy,” I quip. “So how about you just take a deep breath and do what needs to be done so that I can stop bleeding all over your beautiful kitchen.” The humor in my voice doesn’t seem to be helping the situation. I think he’s getting angrier, to be honest. I swear there is actual steam coming out of his ears.

I wonder if I lost more blood than I initially thought because I’m replaceing this situation funnier than I probably should.

This moment with him is so familiar to another in a different kitchen. I sigh, as thoughts of Marcus stitching up my leg years ago invade me. The memory hurts. The beginning of so many things that ended today in a hail of bullets started in that kitchen, in that house. So many things shattered today, so I decide to let this moment with this man take the place of the other one. This memory will be the one I hold onto. I close my eyes, breathe, and let that first kitchen slip away.

My emotions are under control; Jake, however, only seems to have one emotion. Severe annoyance, with a touch of seething anger. So, two emotions. He’s grinding his teeth, and his eye is still visibly twitching, but he seems pretty docile. Docile isn’t the right word. Compliant? No. Resigned?

Cutting up the back of my shirt to reveal the bullet wound, he releases another aggressive exhale and growls his words at me. “I’m going to freeze the area, but it won’t do anything to stop the pain from me digging around in there to get the bullet out.” I look over my shoulder at him. “It’ll help with the stitches.” Still looking at him, I mutter under my breath, knowing that he can hear it. “You could at least use your best bedside manner to help it hurt less,” his hands pause.

“No, Ava, I can’t. My good bedside manner is for patients who go to the fucking hospital when they have multiple gunshot wounds. It is reserved for patients who get in an ambulance and let the paramedics drive them to the hospital, not for patients who get in a car where they drive for God knows how long while bleeding heavily. So no, Ava. There will be no good bedside manner for you; patients like you get the bedside manner you are currently receiving and are happy about it. Besides, you aren’t even in a bed. If you were in a bed, I’d be reminding you very sternly with my hand on your ass why we go to the hospital when shot and not to my house to sit on my kitchen counter bleeding all over my fucking quartz!” He chuffs at me.

I don’t reply; instead, I gently nod my head about 25 times, letting him know I’ve been properly chastised for my behavior.

“Now, be a good fucking girl and take a deep breath because this is going to hurt, and not in any of the fun ways.”

I take a deep breath preparing for the pain, but when some giant tweezers start to prod inside a bullet hole, no amount of preparedness is enough. White tinges the edge of my vision, and in that moment, I regret certain life choices. Specifically, the ones that led here to me sitting on this counter while my angry boyfriend digs a bullet out of me. I say nothing; I clench my teeth and keep breathing. Breathing is the first thing you learn with Harry. You learn that if you don’t breathe through it, whatever it is will win every fucking time. Never forget to breathe no matter the pain, I hear that old bastard telling me.

“Put your hands on your knees, and don’t move,” Jake tells me, putting a hand on the back of my neck moving it ever so slightly to the right. I quickly realize this may be worse than being shot. Any other time I’ve been shot, I went to our in-house doctor. Marcus and I ensured we always had a doctor and an operating room available for our men and myself. At this moment, I’m missing the in-house operating room to have the bullet removed.

Wow, I think I miss Dr. Caine right now. Nah, I miss his drugs, not him.

Jake is quiet as he works. He’s concentrating, but I think he’s also ignoring me.

In one horrible flash of pain that steals both my breath and vision, I feel the bullet dislodge. Jake makes a noise of satisfaction and drops it, then tweezers onto a plate near me. He places his hand against the wound with gauze, I’m assuming to stop the bleeding. “I’m going to stitch this up now,” he says quietly.

He works in silence as he stitches my shoulder. The freezing is working well to silence the pain from the stitches. I’m lost in my head, and I don’t notice when he finishes until the sharp sting of a needle near the entrance wound on my side grabs my attention. I hiss at the feeling.

Jake moves around the island and stands between my legs, removing the rest of my shirt to see the exit wound. He grabs the needle again and starts to inject the area. I hiss in another sharp breath with the sting of the needle. He pauses to look at me, saying a silent sorry. I give him a slight smile. I drop my head a bit, closing my eyes, waiting for the freezing to take effect. He injects it a couple more times, then puts the syringe down. He places his finger under my chin and lifts my head to meet his eyes.

I’m always blown away by how attracted I am to him. He has dark hair that’s more in line with good hockey hair than doctor hair. (Is that even a thing, doctor hair?) He has brown eyes that are so dark. If it weren’t for the specks of hazel in them, you would think they were black. He has high cheekbones and full lips. His nose and the scar from the corner of his left eye diagonally down his cheek to his lip are the only imperfections in his beauty. But those things only add to his allure. They add that little grit to a face that would otherwise be devastatingly perfect. The scar and slightly crooked nose first drew my attention to him six months ago.

He’s tall at 6 foot 2, with a body honed by hours in the gym and time spent running. His hands are my favourite thing about him. I love how long his fingers are. I love the veins that run along the back of them. I love his rough palms from hours of lifting weights. Don’t even get me started on the forearms. His choice of clothes at the hospital when outside the operating room are shirts and ties. When he gets home and removes his jacket, he loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeves to just below his elbow.

Jake’s forearms are pure porn for me.

I have been drawn to this man from the moment I met him. Forearms or not he has a gravitational force over me.

“I’m sorry, Jake,” I say quietly, hoping he does and doesn’t hear me. “I wish I hadn’t had to come here. I never wanted you to see this side of my life.”

I wish for so many things if I’m being honest. I wish I were a different version of myself—a version where my life never went down the path that led me here. I wish my parents hadn’t died in that car crash. I wish I hadn’t been sent to Harry to learn my trade. But at the same time, given the chance, I wouldn’t change it. I have a tough time wishing for that because while my life is dark and often bloody, it’s led me to him, and truth be told, I’m really fucking good at what I do.

I lift my face and press my lips to his. He hesitates for a fraction of a second before he kisses me back. He grabs the back of my head, tangling his fingers in my hair tightly. His kiss is hard. More punishing than demanding. His tongue invades my mouth as if I have no say in the matter, and I happily sigh into him. It’s one of my favorite things about Jake, about us. He takes control of me; he doesn’t ask for it nicely; he doesn’t ask for it at all. He takes it, and I yield it to him.

We somehow knew when we met that our desires and needs perfectly answered the others.

His hand slides down my arm and grabs my waist pulling me closer. But he grabs too close to my side, and no amount of freezing can stop that jolt of pain. A whimper escapes my lips sobering Jake instantly, and he glares at me, like somehow, I’m to blame for him forgetting himself and grabbing me. I hide my smirk at his glare and focus on him as he stitches the exit wound. Done with the stitches, he places his hands down on the counter, caging me in. Bending towards me, he places his head in the middle of my chest. I bring my hands up to run them through his hair, resting my chin on the back of his head.

We stay that way for a few minutes. Both of us are silent, enjoying the feel of the other being so close, a last moment of quiet before the storm. The questions Jake deserves answers to are the same ones I can’t answer. I know they’re coming. “Ava,” he starts as he lifts his head to look at me. I tense. But Jake does something I don’t expect. He kisses me softly and then turns away. He heads to the fridge, grabs a sports drink and hands it to me. “Drink that,” he grumbles. I raise an eyebrow at him, twist the lid off and take a big gulp of the blue liquid, realizing how thirsty I am.

“Jake,” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

“You need to rest. Sleep will help you heal and recover some of the blood you lost, and it needs to be now because we both know you aren’t staying. Once you feel like it’s safe, you’ll be leaving me. I need you to get some sleep before that, so I don’t have a panic attack thinking of you driving after what your body has just been through. The doctor in me won’t allow a patient, no matter how reckless, to just take off after being shot twice.’ He closes his eyes for a breath and swallows. “So, let’s get you down and into the shower and then bed for a couple hours.”

I open my mouth to say I need to leave, but Jake stops me before I can utter a sound.

“Please, Ava. I know I’ll never see you again after you leave here, so I need you to do this for me. Please shower and rest for a couple of hours, then go. Please, do this for me.”

I don’t believe I’ve ever heard him say please to me. I know I’ve never heard that plea in his voice before. I give him a slight nod and take his hand to help me off the counter.