Moving Forward

Unforgivable (37)

Max could feel himself slipping. Felt as if the floor had been stolen from underneath him. He was struggling to keep himself with Kyle - to stay in the situation. It was too dangerous for him to fall any further but... he could smell gunpowder and smoke, couldn't remember which pair of boots he was wearing - the new squeaky ones Dime had given him? Or his old worn in pair?

He couldn't move but this quagmire wasn't forced on him by Lara. This was his own mind turning on him. Telling him that if he moved he'd step right into enemy fire. If he moved Lara would know he wasn't under her control. If he moved, a mine would explode under his foot. He knew only one of those was a real danger... but what if it wasn't just in his head?

Instead of fight or flight, his body had chosen freeze and so far, he was safe, but that couldn't last forever.

Between one blink and another, Kyle had gone from being by Max's side to having been dragged into the centre of the living room. Still locked inside his head, Max could only watched as Lara began drawing something on the floor, listen to her chanting.

When he closed his eyes, her chanting faded into the shouts of men, staring at death down the barrel of a rifle. He opened them again, expecting the glare of sun on dry desert flats - confused to see the walls of the house, lost before he caught his own scent permeating the space.

Max's house. They were still in Max's house.

Where was Luke?

Luke didn't live here. They'd broken up months ago, he was an asshole. Max was with Kyle now. Kyle was Max's mate.

When he looked at Kyle once more, finding those gold eyes already locked on him, Max found himself wanting to scream, his throat locked in silence.

Would Lara hurt Kyle? Max couldn't imagine it. But Max also hadn't imagined that Lara could be cruel enough to do any of this. She had been their friend. Surely that had to count for something. She wouldn't hurt Kyle. Finn would make it back to Amelia unscathed with his big brother in tow. They would be fine. They'd all be fine.

"I'm sorry," Lara murmured.

Light glinted on metal, mirroring the twin stream of tears on her face as she stared at the ornate dagger in her delicate fingers. Genuine remorse - the expression was oddly graceful on her, a work of art almost. Max could see it; an angel weeping for sins of man.

Time slowed. Max saw every second as the dagger parted fur, then skin, then muscle. Kyle's eyes widened. He whimpered.

Max was moving before his mind registered what had happened. It was the PTSD. It had to be. But this wasn't a dream. Not as far as Max could tell, though that didn't always mean he was right.

Without warning, the tilting stopped. The knife slipped out of Lara's hand - slick with Kyle's blood - and clattered to the floor, the noise echoing in the sharp silence.

Too late. An ugly noise reached Max, seeping through the quiet - a wretched keening, sobbing. Distantly, Max knew he was the source, but he couldn't stop. Not with Kyle like this.

Warm. Too warm. Fur slick and matted. Strength leeching from Kyle's body with every moment, the sensation so disgusting only because Max knew it was Kyle.

Gold flashed in Kyle's eyes, and he blinked slow, as if to reassure Max that everything would be alright, that the world wasn't ending, but Max knew this story all too well.

"You're not allowed to die," Max snarled.

He'd seen too much death. And Max would be damned if he was going to part from Kyle like this.

Without another thought, Max snatched his gun from the holster.

"Close your eyes, Finn," he ordered, not waiting to see if he was obeyed.

"Lara?" Gillespie's voice was calm.

So annoyingly calm. Max had already fired a shot before he realised that Gillespie has a shield - one of the brainwashed werewolves with empty expressions. They were moving, closing in on Max, more streaming in through the doors.

None came close enough to touch him. In this state, Max was both disturbingly rational, and serenely insane. His aim was lethal, and every shot exploded from the gun with deadly accuracy. One after another, the enemy fell.

Until Max ran out of bullets.

The knives at his ankles came free, hissing ominously.

Staying in a crouch, Max waited, breath even despite his racing heart. Inhale. Exhale.

Max would kill the minions. Then he'd kill Gillespie. And then he'd kill Lara.

Once Finn could escape, nobody else was getting out of this alive. Not if Kyle was dead. Max would rather die fighting right here and now than live knowing that Kyle's death was his fault.

Hadn't Max promised to protect him?

Four more. Just four more brainwashed werewolves to go and then Finn would be free to run to safety.

As one stalked forward, Max could feel the other three closing in, surrounding Max on all sides. He wasn't getting out of this without taking some damage; fine by him.

Baring his teeth in a snarl, Max slashed the ankles of the wolf closest to him. He spun around, driving back the wolf on his tail with well timed strikes. Movement on the right - Max jabbed the tip of the knife into the clavicle of the wolf - the handle sliding from his grasp - and ducked low as the werewolf on the left lunged for him. Pushing up, Max shoved his shoulder into the sternum, followed by plunging his remaining blade up through the throat.

One dead. One incapacitated. Two injured.

A cry pulled Max's gaze from his last two opponents. Finn, trapped in Gillespie's grasp.

The distraction was enough. A blow to his temple made Max's vision waver, sparks flashing.

How hard could these motherfuckers hit?

A kick connected with his ribs, the crack loud in his throbbing head. And with another punch to the face, Max's vision went black.