Luella ducked and slammed into his side to avoid the blade; the momentum sent them both tumbling to the ground. The blade skittered away, resting near a pile of leaves. Her breath was knocked from her by the force of the fall. She didn’t stop.
She inhaled sharply, back burning, her gaze finding the dagger at the same time his did. And she dove for it, scrambling against the ground. One arm outstretched, fingers reaching, and?—
A boot slammed down on her fingers.
Luella released a choked scream, pain lancing through her hand and up her arm. Her eyes squeezed shut. "Ah—ow!"
"The angel is a fighter."
The male she’d knocked over finally grasped the dagger. "Who would’ve thought?"
Blindly, she grasped for something—anything. The fingers of her other hand found purchase on a sharp rock, and she grippedit weakly, swinging her arm with all her might. It landed with a loud crack against the Fallen’s knee, and the weight of his boot let up on her other hand. Her fingers throbbed as she pushed herself up.
The two Fallen watched her as she stood, wobbling, her hand cradled to her chest.
"When they find out what you’ve done, they’ll kill you," she said to them both, unable to stop a strange smile. Her words were a warning they did not take. They laughed. "I pity you. Because when they find out…"
Her Vincire would move the Above and Below for her. This, Luella knew with her entire heart.
Her words sparked menace in their eyes.
"No one will find out. There’ll be no body to find."
That promise made her gasp in fear. They didn’t move, because they thought they had her. They thought it was over.
Luella knew it wasn’t—not until she could no longer fight.
She dove for the side, lunging toward a break in the trees. Her fingers pulsed.
A blade seared through her upper arm. Sharp and hot. She flinched, slamming into the male who had cut her, and a hand grabbed her shoulder, branding the pain further into her being. Blood slid down her bare arm and soaked her gown. The immediacy scared her.
She released a stuttering breath, frozen. When she tightened her fist to stop the gush, her grip felt clumsy.
"Told you we should’ve used the blade first," said the male who pulled away a dagger and wiped it on the edge of her gown, the dull side against her hipbone, leaving a smear of blood.
She was afraid to look for fear of what she’d see. Was it deep?
"Knock her out. Let’s get this over with."
The Fallen raised the blunt hilt of the dagger, and she shrank back, arm burning, blood trickling from the cut and dripping from her fingertips.
"Wait. No!" she begged, attempting to raise her good arm, but it was caught and held behind her sharply.
The last thing she saw was the end of the dagger as it came right for her head.
39
DEEP UNDERWATER
GRAVES
Graves couldn’t sleep, for his dreams had been haunting him, and he refused to face his past. It fucking wrapped around him, choking him.
The yarn ball was soft in his hands, and he threw it upward, watching as the untethered ends fluttered out before he caught it in his palm. Again, he threw it upward, catching it each time. The steady thump was grounding, and the feel was even more so. It smelled like salt and fresh air andhome.
Graves gritted his jaw, and when the ball fell back into his hand, he wrapped his fingers around it, squeezed, then threw it onto the bed beside him—done with games, done with distraction.
He scrubbed a hand over his face harshly; black dots speckled his vision from the rubbing.
