Page 182 of This Life of Mine

It’s in my hand before it hits the ground.

I know its weight. Its balance—how much pressure it takes to make someone bleed, and how much more it takes to make them talk.

The first man is wailing from the broken bone, registering the pain and sudden absence of control.

The second one charges.

Big. Angry. Sloppy as fuck.

He thinks size wins fights. Not always.

I pivot, letting his momentum carry him past me as the blade comes up—not deep, not lethal. A clean slice across his forearm. Deep enough to open skin and tear into muscle. Blood blooms instantly and he howls.

Pain does that. It steals logic. Steals breath. Steals dignity.

I step in close and drive an elbow into his spine. He stumbles. I hook his ankle and shove. He hits the concrete hard, face-first, teeth cracking on impact.

I don’t follow him down.

I return my attention to the first man—now panicking, eyes locked on the knife in my hand.

Good. Fear makes people predictable.

I move fast. A slash across his cheek, enough to remind him how close he is to losing something he values.

Another cut—across the ribs this time. Deep and bone-slicing.

I was taught early that a knife isn’t only about killing. It’s about precision. About knowing the body well enough to stop short of the line you don’t intend to cross until you’re ready.

He swings wildly. I step inside it, knee driving up into his groin. He folds with a broken sound.

Before he collapses, I drive the knife into his gut, straight to his liver, tugging it up and out. The man groans, clutching the wound filling up with black blood.

Yeah, he’s not surviving that.

The second man is crawling now, one good arm dragging him toward his jacket. Towards his fucking gun.

I’m already moving. I stomp his wrist flat before his fingers can close. The crunch of bone meeting pavement is music to my ears. He screams.

I kick the gun down the alley, then crouch so that he can see my face. The knife flashes once more. Deep into the back of his neck.

His body jerks in a futile attempt to breathe air. A strangled sound escapes him before fading into ragged breaths.

I don’t get to fully enjoy this.

Both of them are down now, and it took less than a few minutes.

My breathing is steady.

I look to the back door, and I’m already moving, sprinting as dread slices through my chest sharper than any blade. Because this was never about me. They were a delay. And all my instincts are screaming the same thing as my boots pound against the pavement—

Lina.

I burst through the back door, and the world narrows to one frozen frame.

Elinor Allister with a gun, holding it firm against Lina.

The barrel is steady, pressed close enough that I can see Lina’s breath hitch with every inhale. Elinor’s posture is calm—too calm—the kind of composure that comes from believing you still have leverage.