I’m afraid some of ya’ll just don’t have the freak gene that lets you enjoy ACTUAL enemies to lovers. Ya’ll think that trope is just like coworkers fighting over a promotion or smth like no give me people that have tried to maim and kill one another or give me nothing
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eating and being eaten | chapter ten, 'i will turn myself into a gun'
extended preview
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The car jolts beneath them, the tires collapsing as the air shrieks out.
“What the—”
Another round of shots shreds the other two tires. Kie surges up and Rafe grips her waist, forcing her back into the seat. “Stay down,” he grits, pinning her below the window.
His pulse is thundering in his ears. He can feel her heart stuttering against his chest. She’s naked beneath him, all exposed, fragile skin, skin that felt an obliterating void just seconds ago, and the sudden vulnerability of it nearly shorts him out. He wants to rip his own skin off and smother her in it.
He turns his head to listen for anything outside.
She inhales unevenly. “We need to run.”
He shakes his head. “We need to think.”
It’s quiet outside, any localizing sounds masked by the rain, and he struggles to fend off the flood threatening his head.
“They went for the tires, not you, so they want you alive.”
She swallows. “Rafe.”
“That means you’re not a hit to them, you’re a source—”
“Rafe.”
“We can use that, we can leverage whatever the fuck you know to—”
“Rafe,” she hisses, cutting through the adrenaline, and he looks at her.
Her eyes are raw static. She looks glitching, volatile, every atom splitting in half, and for a second, she’s right back on that porch again—lip split, face cracked, handprints raw against her throat.
“I need to get out of this car.”
Her throat works like she’s swallowing a scream.
“I can’t—” her voice cuts out, thick, visceral, “—again—”
“Kie.”
She starts shoving at him, careening.
“Kie—”
She lunges up and he forces her down with his body, away from the windows, gripping her face in his hands to make her look at him.
“Hey. Hey.”
She’s vibrating against him. She’s panic turned human. He can see the phantom knuckles cracking against her face, hear the cut-off screams snagging in her throat, and his eyes fix on the scar they left there. He imagines the blade carving down her neck. Imagines their animal fucking hands on her.
His vision tunnels.
He feels the familiar blackout starting in his head, unidirectional and catabolic, senseless with the kind of rage that led to bribed cops and shredded cartilage in his teeth, but somehow, despite the pressure to detonate nearly splitting skull, he makes himself look back up at her. At the wild, irrational brown of her eyes. The shapelessness of her panic. The way her face looks like it’ll scatter apart if he drops his hands.
His breath rattles with restraint. “I’m here this time.”
He imagines gutting them with the same knife they used on her.
“I’m here and they’re going to know that.”
He imagines fisting their intestines down their throats to see what kills them first.
“I swear to God they’re going know that.” He lowers his face to hers, nostrils flared, thumbs sweeping her cheekbones to pull her focus. “But first I need to get us the fuck out of here. And to do that, I’m going to need you to trust me.”
She stares up at him with raw eyes. He feels her carotids drumming against his palms.
“Can you do that?” His voice is thick with throttled violence. “Can you trust me?”
She swallows. The rain picks up against the metal roof.
“Kie.”
Her lashes flicker once, a shutter closing, and she nods.
Somewhere lightless in his chest, buried beneath the taut jaws of his ribcage, he feels her reach in and break something.
He manages to get her back into her clothes. Her movements are stiff and mechanical but she listens to him and that's enough.
“My car’s parked just across the lot,” he tells her as he yanks his own shirt on. “The keys are in the ignition. You’re going to need to get to it as fast as you can and use the woods as cover.”
She watches his hands.
“I’ll keep them distracted—they know who I am and that killing me would be messy, so that’ll buy you some time.” He reaches down and hauls on his shoes. “When I give you the signal, start the car and floor it to me and I’ll jump in. They’ll have to pick between gunning us down which they clearly don’t want to do or getting to their car to chase us.”
He sees her throat work. Her voice is unsteady when she finds it. “What makes you think they won’t just shoot your tires out, too?”
“I have drive-flat tires—we can make it up to 50 miles on them shredded.”
She blinks briskly. He’s not sure she’s listening. She’s still half-suspended in panic, like there's a current running through her.
“One more thing.” He reaches underneath the passenger seat and pulls out the Glock he stashed there a few weeks ago. Her face stutters and it’s the first thing he’s seen fracture the trauma coma. “Take this with you.”
“What—where the fuck did you—”
“I’ll explain later, take it.”
He gives the gun a hard shake, barrel down, grip taut around the handle, and she blinks fast. “I don’t know how to—”
“You do.”
“I don’t remember—”
“You do.”
Her stare shoots up to his. For a split-second, they’re right back in the patch of woods by his house, pressed against each other, breathing unsteadily in the echo of her bullseye. The first time she ever reached for more of him. The first time his gnawing, miserable want saw a reflection.
He leans forward, dropping his voice to a hum. “Remember what I told you back then? What to do with all that rage I saw?”
Her lashes flicker. She swallows roughly. “Use it.”
He nods. “And fuck them.”
Her eyes search his for a beat, like she’s trying to find that version of herself in them.
“You know what you’re doing,” he insists. “Remember the recoil. Trust your muscle memory.”
He presses the gun into her hand and lets go.
She stares down at it as he finishes dressing. “What about you?”
“What about me?” he asks, yanking on his jacket.
“You’re confronting them. You need this more than me.”
He busies himself with the zipper, avoiding an answer. Mainly because he doesn’t have one. Because of course he needs it more than her. It’s a suicidal fucking plan. Unfortunately, his awareness of that doesn’t change anything. “I’ll figure something out.”
He feels her eyes on him.
It sets his teeth on edge, her confusion. Like he hasn’t been crystal fucking clear about this. Like she needs him to spell out again that he has no choice, that he’ll always take the injury of prioritizing her, that his organs are in a limp garbage bag hanging from her fist.
He should shoot her in the fucking head right now and save the mercs the trouble.
