Page 112 of What Doesn't Kill You…

And he did it.

With every ounce of strength he could muster, he swung his legs wide and swept Damien's feet out from under him. Max followed through by rolling out from under the sofa, ready to kick Damien again.

But there was no need.

Shock registered on Damien's handsome face as he lost his balance. His gun swung upward as his arms flailed, desperate to grasp something to stop his fall. The gun went off. A bullet lodged in a painted cherub on the ceiling. For a split second that felt like an eternity, Damien fell. His eyes wide, his mouth open in a silent roar. And then he crashed down.

Straight onto a bronze sculpture.

A spear sliced through Damien's expensive suit, into his back and out through the front of his chest. He was suspended, two feet above the floor, impaled on a Roman warrior.

He made an odd, strangled, gurgling sound, as a pool of red spread across the white of his shirt. The gun fell from his hand with a dull clang. His arms flopped to the floor beside him, and with one last gasp, he stilled.

Damien Poole was dead.

Max scrambled to sitting position. His hands still bound in front of him. He couldn't tear his gaze from Damien. His heart beat erratically. His breathing was shallow, as though he couldn't find any air. The room began to shift and swim around him, and he wasn't sure which way was up.

All he could see was the man he’d killed.

His hands shook as strong arms enveloped him. Max tried to shake his captor off, but his effort was weak.

"It's okay," a voice said.

Max gave up the fight and stared at the body of the monster.

"It's okay," the voice said again, as arms held him tight.

Slowly, the touch began to register. But it was the scent he recognized first.

Night flowers.

Warm strength.

Violet.

She clasped a hand to the side of his head and held him fast against her chest, until her heartbeat penetrated the fog of shock that enveloped him. It was steady and strong. Just like her.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Max said, feeling oddly disconnected from his words. As though his voice was coming from very far away. "He was supposed to go to jail."

"I know." Violet stroked his hair.

"I was going to write an exposé. His reputation would have been ruined and his story would have come out in court. Everybody would have seen him for exactly who he is." He paused, staring at the dead man. "Was."

Other people began to penetrate his daze. Rodrigo ordered someone to deal with the men outside. Logan said something about a safe. A voice on the radio told them help was coming.

“You can still tell your story,” Violet said.

"But it wasn't supposed to be this way," Max whispered. "I never meant for him to die. I just didn't want him to kill you." Her arms squeezed tighter, and his bruised body winced at the pain, but he didn't want her to stop. He never wanted her to stop. "You couldn't see him. He was in your blind spot, hiding behind the screen. His gun was right there. And he smiled. He knew he had you and I knew he'd kill you and I…reacted…"

"You did the right thing." Violet crooned at him.

"I reacted," Max repeated as he stared at the man he killed. "I didn't think…"

Violet pressed a kiss to the top of his head as she held him close, offering shelter and support. Offering herself.

"I understand," she whispered.

And Max closed his eyes against the sight of the dead man.