***Dragon's POV***
When the dust settled, the click of Dru’s shotgun safety snapped like a threat. She dragged me up the front porch of the shack, her grip bruising, and sat the gun by the door. Turning towards me, her eyes blazed molten gold under the sulfur-yellow porch light, arms crossed over her Lou Nwa tank top. The air reeked of gunpowder and my own blood, metallic and sour, mixing with the damp rot of cypress wood.
“Again?” She spat the words like shrapnel. Her Creole accent thickened with rage, the way it always did when her control frayed. “Three holes this time? What are you, a bullet magnet?”
I reached for her, encircling her in my arms, ignoring the fire in my side. “No es tan grave (It's not that bad). I put down more than just the two who gave me these.”
“Idiota (i***t).
