I don't raise my voice.
"Your left kneecap," I say. Quiet. Conversational. "Has a very specific structural weakness. Every humanoid kneecap does. It's a hinge joint. Ligaments on four sides. The anterior cruciate is the weakest. A sharp lateral strike with approximately two hundred pounds of force dislocates the patella entirely and tears the ACL, the MCL, and the meniscus simultaneously."
Mark's breathing is a wet, panicked whistle through his nose.
"I can generate nine hundred pounds of force with an open palm strike."
His left shoe falls off. Hits the grass with a soft thud.
"That's enough to not just dislocate the patella but shatter it into three distinct fragments. The recovery involves two surgeries. Titanium pins. Eight months of rehabilitation. You walk with a limp for the rest of your life. Stairs become a negotiation. Running becomes a memory."
"Please."
"That's just the left one." I shift my grip. Pull him one inch closer. "The right one, I'd take my time with."
A sound comes out of Mark that lives somewhere between a whimper and a hiccup. His eyes are wet. His cologne is suffocating at this range, and underneath it, the sharp copper tang of genuine terror sweat.
"You spoke to her tonight. In a dark corner. Alone. Without witnesses." Each word lands separate and clean. "You will notspeak to her again. You will not approach her. You will not stand within twenty feet of her for the remainder of this wedding. If I catch your scent near her, if I hear your voice in her direction, if she so much as flinches because you looked at her wrong across a room..."
I tap his left kneecap with one finger. Gentle. Almost friendly.
"...I will find you and I will make you sit down forever."
I open my hands.
Mark drops. Three inches. His shoeless foot hits first, ankle rolling on the manicured grass, and he crumples sideways against the stone wall. Slides down it. Sits in the dirt with his knees pulled to his chest and his remaining loafer pointing at the moon.
He doesn't say a word.
I turn and walk back toward the maze.
The Silverleaf has already begun repairingthe tunnel I carved through its heart. Branches reach across the gaps like fingers lacing together. But the wounds are fresh and the regrowth is thin. I push through easily, following the trail of destruction back toward the center.
Magnolia is exactly where I told her to be. Near the fountain. Petunia beside her, gripping her arm, both of them staring at the wrecked hedge walls. A floating champagne tray hovers nervously behind them, rattling.
Magnolia sees me. Her eyes track down from my face to my torn shirt, the shredded armor-silk beneath, the blood and glowing sap mixing on my forearms, the thorns still jutting from my skin like quills.
"Dash, what did you..."
I don't stop walking. Straight to her. One arm hooks behind her knees, the other behind her back. I lift her off the ground and over my shoulder in a single fluid motion. Petunia's champagne glass hits the stone.
"We're leaving the maze."
"Put medown."
"No."
My blood is running entirely too hot, every vein lit up with something that has nothing to do with combat, and her hand grabs the back of my ruined shirt to steady herself, and the touch burns worse than any Silverleaf thorn.
CHAPTER 9
MAGNOLIA
The world bounces with every step he takes.
His shoulder is a slab of warm granite against my stomach, and each stride covers what would take me three steps. The country club hallways blur past upside down. Crystal chandeliers. Horrified guests. A waiter carrying a tower of shrimp cocktails who flattens himself against the wall as Dash barrels through.
"People are staring," I hiss.
