She came at me.
Fast. Professional. Every strike calculated to cripple, not kill. She wanted me alive. Wanted me broken. Wanted me to watch what came next.
I blocked with the chain. Metal rang. My broken ribs screamed. Didn't care.
She was inside my guard. Knife driving up toward my armpit. Arterial strike.
I caught her wrist. Bare-handed. Let the blade slice my palm. Used the grip to pull her close. Off balance.
Drove my forehead into her nose.
Cartilage crunched. She staggered back. I pressed. Chain swinging. Caught her across the ribs.
She grunted. Twisted. Kicked my knee. I went down.
She was on me. Knife at my throat. We were both on our knees. Both bleeding. Both refusing to stop.
“I loved you,” I whispered.
“I know.” Her smile was sad. Real. Blood on her teeth. “I loved you too. That's what makes this hurt.”
She raised the knife.
Viktor's hand shot out. Grabbed her wrist. He'd crawled across the floor. Leaving a blood trail. But he was there.
She turned. Drove her elbow into his temple.
He held on. Twisted her wrist. Bone cracked. She screamed. Dropped the knife.
I grabbed it. Reversed it. Pressed it under her chin.
“Yield,” I said.
She laughed. Wet. Gurgling. “Never.”
She drove her head back. Into Viktor's face. He fell. She grabbed my wrist. The one holding the knife. Twisted.
Pain exploded. I dropped it.
We grappled. Rolling across blood-slick concrete. Trading strikes. No skill now. Just desperation and rage and everything we'd been to each other turned into violence.
She got on top. Hands around my throat. Squeezing.
“I'm sorry,” she gasped. Crying now. Actually crying. “I'm so sorry.”
Black spots bloomed. Oxygen became memory.
A shot cracked.
Élodie jerked. Stumbled back. Blood bloomed on her vest. Center mass.
Noah stood ten feet away. Gun raised. Hands steady despite the tears streaming down his face.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I'm so sorry.”
Élodie looked down at herself. At the blood spreading. At the reality of metal and failure.
She laughed. Soft. Broken.
