Page 65 of Property of Scar

Fast.

Too damn fast.

And the air changes. A flicker of movement at the edge of my vision, just enough to put every predatory instinct I own on a collision course with it.

I spin out of the kill, boots grinding against broken concrete as I drive toward the intercept.

It should have been enough.

Should have put me right in its path.

But this bastard is quicker than the others.

Meaner too.

And as it explodes across the room, I realize it isn’t hunting me.

It’s hunting her.

I see it in the fraction of a second before contact, the rogue hitting Cali from the side. At the same time, her attention is held by the fourth, its hands closing on her throat, impact carrying her backward into the wall hard enough that the shelving unit beside her groans and buckles. She gets a hand up, starts to fight it off, but it’s stronger, pressing the advantage, and her feet are barely touching the floor.

Something happens in my chest.

It isn’t a decision, but something snaps loose inside me.

Five centuries of control, discipline, and restraint.

All gone.

The rogue launches at her, and I move. One second, and I launch across the room. Next, I’ve got both hands on the fucker. The impact is violent enough to tear him out of the air entirely. We hit the far wall like a wrecking ball, smashing straight through drywall and steel studs in an explosion of dust, shattered plaster, and twisted metal.

There’s nothing controlled about it, just speed, rage, and pure, unadulterated violence, the kind that leaves holes in walls and bodies on the floor.

My hand closes around his throat and drives him back through the wreckage, bone and debris giving way under the force as his spine slams into the broken concrete. The impact fractures what’s left of the pillar behind him, dust bursting up around us, but I don’t slow, ease, or measure.

He moves to counteract.

Of course, he does.

His hand comes up fast, aiming for my wrist, trying to break the hold, but I’m already past the point where this is an exchange. Instead, I tighten my grip, fingers locking in, crushing down until I feel the structure of his throat give beneath my hand.

Not enough to end it, but enough to take his leverage.

His other hand strikes for my side, but I don’t avoid it. I absorb it and let it land. Let it mean nothing because he’s still looking past me.

Still tracking her.

That’s the mistake.

I step in closer, eliminating the last of the space between us, and slam him down again, harder this time, the floor cracking under the impact as his body hits.

“You’re done,” I growl, and there’s nothing measured left in it.

He bares his teeth at me, blood already working loose at the edges of his mouth, and for a split second I see it, the calculation, the attempt to reangle, to buy time, to survive.

I don’t give it to him.

My other hand comes up and drives forward, straight through the center of his chest.