Élodie moved like water. Graceful. Lethal. Taking up position by the door. Knives held loose and ready. Every inch of her screaming trained killer instead of the gentle woman who'd braided my hair when we were children.
The door exploded.
Not opened. Exploded.
Flashbang detonated. White light. Ringing silence. Smoke billowing in like fog.
Then chaos.
Gunfire. Shouting. Bodies pouring through.
“Sebastian!”
Viktor's voice. Raw. Desperate. The most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.
I tried to answer. Couldn't. Throat closed with relief and pain and the desperate need to just see him. Just know he was real.
Through smoke and light and tears I couldn't stop, I watched him cut through Marcel's guards like they were paper.
Two mercenaries charged. He dropped them both. Gun in one hand. Knife in the other. Moving like death itself given human form.
More poured in behind him. Dom. Luka. Troy. Dmitri. Even Noah, medical bag strapped across his chest, gun in hand despite his usual aversion to violence.
My family. Come to drag me out of hell.
Then Élodie moved.
She exploded from her position. Not defensive. Hunting.
Her first knife caught Troy in the shoulder. Deep. Disabling. He went down hard, cursing, blood spraying.
Her second knife spun through smoke. Straight for Viktor's throat.
He saw it coming. Barely. Twisted. The blade scored his neck instead of opening his jugular. Blood sprayed. Arterial. Bright.
But he didn't slow down.
Just shifted. Tracked her. Gun raising.
She was already moving. Impossibly fast. Impossibly skilled. She flowed around his aim like water, reading his body language before he could fire. Closed the distance in three steps. Drove her knee into his ribs with precision that spoke of years of training.
He grunted. Blocked her follow-up elbow with his forearm. The impact sounded like wood cracking. Grabbed her wrist as she tried to draw another knife.
She twisted in his grip. Used his momentum against him. Threw him into the wall hard enough to crack stone. Plaster rained down.
Viktor hit. Slid. Came up bleeding but moving. Always moving.
“You're good,” she said. Almost admiring. Breathing steady despite the violence. “Adrian trained you well. But you're hurt. Tired. And caring about him makes you slow.”
She came at him again. All edges and speed. Knife work that was beautiful and terrible. Every strike aimed to kill or cripple. Throat. Heart. Femoral artery. She knew exactly where to cut.
Viktor met her. Blocked with his knife. Sparks flew. Metal sang. They moved like dancers, like this was choreographed, like they'd studied the same brutal art and were now testing who'd learned better.
She was faster. He was stronger. She flowed like water. He moved like stone.
They circled each other. Both bleeding now. Both breathing hard.
“Élodie!” I screamed it. “Stop! Please!”
