Page 181 of This Life of Mine

That’s when it happens. That sudden awareness—the kind that prickles the skin before the brain catches up.

I feel a presence to my right, so I glance up. And my breath leaves me in a rush.

Elinor Allister stands inside the kitchen doorway, perfectly composed, impeccably dressed. And she’s pointing a gun at me.

Her eyes lock onto mine, cold and assessing.

This was always the plan. And I realize—far too late—that while Alex stepped away for one call…she chose her moment perfectly.

Chapter fifty-four

Alex

Ianswer the phone as I remove the apron I borrowed from Lina and toss it on the rail next to the back door.

“Alex—listen to me,” Reese says, skipping any greeting.

“Elinor Allister is on the move. I believe she’s headed toward the bakery. And she’s not alone.”

My body reacts before my brain finishes processing the words.

“What do you mean not alone?” I ask, already scanning the alley, already shifting my stance. “Two hired men with her,” Reese continues. “Big. Armed. They’re meant to—“ I don’t hear the rest.

I glance up, and there they are. Two extremely large men round the corner. Thick necks. Broad shoulders. The kind of bulk that’s meant to intimidate more than move.

Their hands hover close to their jackets—where I know the guns are.

They don’t want to shoot me. Not here. Not with a neighborhood so close.

Too much attention. Too many witnesses.

They want to neutralize me. They think this will be easy.

I slip the phone in my back pocket. I square my shoulders and let my breathing slow.

Everything sharpens—the sounds, the angles, the distance between us. My pulse steadies.

“You can go quietly on your own or we force you” the guy to the left says.

I roll my neck and smile, giving them the hand signal to move forward.

They come at me together. Bad choice.

The first one leads with a wide right—announced, clumsy. I slip inside the arc instead of backing away, crashing my forearm into his bicep while my other hand snaps up to his throat. Not a choke. A strike. He stumbles back. My thumb digs into the soft hollow under the guys jaw, and I drive forward, smashing his head back against the brick wall hard enough to rattle his teeth. He grunts—but doesn’t go down.

Instead, his hand flashes between us. Steel catches the light.

A knife.

I don’t fucking flinch.

I was trained with blades before I was ever trusted with a gun. Knives don’t echo. Don’t leave casings. Don’t wake neighborhoods or invite sirens. Guns are loud and bring attention.

Blades are intimate. Honest.

The knife whistles past my ribs close enough that I feel the air move. I redirect his wrist without thinking—muscle memory older than most of my scars. I trap his forearm against my chest and torque his wrist hard, past its limit.

Bone pops. The knife drops.