Tombé, coupé, relevé—ballet terms for combat movements, because violence is just another kind of dance.
I come up on my feet in fourth position—weight distributed perfectly, blades extended, finally opening my mismatched eyes to see?—
The third attacker stares at me.
Young. Beta female, probably nineteen. Holding a machete like she knows how to use it, but isn't sure she wants to.
Her eyes are wide.
Terrified.
She looks at her companions—one clutching his thigh as blood pumps between his fingers, the other writhing on the ground with severed tendons—and then back at me.
At my smile.
At the blood already dripping from my blades.
At the absolute, crystalline joy on my face.
"Run," I suggest pleasantly.
She doesn't need to be told twice.
The machete clatters to the ground as she bolts, disappearing into the shadows between buildings with the kind of speed that only pure terror can inspire.
Smart girl.
I turn my attention back to the two on the ground.
The first one—the one with the femoral bleed—is already fading. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. He's trying to speak, but all that comes out is a wet gurgling sound.
I crouch beside him, tilting my head.
"You attacked me first," I tell him conversationally, like we're discussing the weather. "Under Ruthless Academy's 'survive or be killed' clause, this is completely legal. Just so we're clear."
He doesn't respond.
Can't respond.
His hand reaches toward me—whether in plea or attack, I'll never know—and then drops.
Thump.
Dead weight.
One down.
The second one—Achilles girl—is still screaming. High-pitched, desperate, the sound of someone who knows they're dying but hasn't quite accepted it yet.
I move to her with economical grace, my ballet shoes leaving bloody footprints on the concrete.
She looks up at me, tears streaming down her face, and I see the moment she understands.
That I'm not going to help.
That this is the end.
That she fucked up by thinking a packless Omega would be easy prey.
