A metallic snap.
Instinct screamed.
Move—
The world exploded. Pressure slammed her ears.
The lock blew apart—metal shrieking, wood splintering inward in a spray of fragments that stung her cheek.
Every cell in her body screamed run. Her hands said otherwise.
She fired.
The Glock kicked, and the shot went wide, punching into the doorframe in a burst of dust. Recoil jolted up her arms, and she stumbled backward, her heel catching the edge of the bathtub.
The door caved inward.
Akilov filled the frame.
White gauze stretched across the left side of his face, stained yellow where fluid had seeped through. The edges had peeled back, revealing skin pulled tight in angry ridges beneath—melted and reset wrong.
She’d done that.
On the rig. The flare. His scream.
She thought it ended there.
His one good eye locked on her.
No rage.
No pain.
Just calculation.
She fired again.
The shot cracked past his shoulder, splintering tiles.
Akilov was already moving. He’d expected it.
He closed the gap, boots crunching on debris, and hit her wrist. The Glock spun free and skittered into the dark.
She reached for the shelf, fingers closing around a heavy glass bottle. She swung, aiming for his head?—
The bottle glanced off his shoulder and shattered against the doorframe. Glass exploded. Cedar and alcohol burst into the air.
He caught her wrist and wrenched hard. Pain shot in hot needles up her arm. His other hand fisted in her hair, close to the scalp. He dragged her forward. Her knees hit the floor, and tile shards bit through her jeans.
She gasped, pushing up to her feet, and drove her elbow back, blind and vicious.
It caught his ribs.Not enough.
His grip tightened, and he shifted his weight, pulling her off balance like he’d done it a hundred times before.
She grabbed for the doorframe as he hauled her through it. Splintered wood gouged her palms. She locked her fingers and held on.
For one second she thought she might anchor herself.
