Page 123 of When He Plays

She waited, waited…

Then she twisted out of the way. She lunged to the side, swept out with her foot, hooked it around his ankle even as she was grabbing his wrist, and Charlotte sent him flying toward the floor. A bellow of rage broke from him.

Too fast, Carmichael leapt back to his feet. He still gripped the damn knife. She’d hoped he would drop the knife when he fell. No such luck. She’d just have to try harder.

They circled each other.

“I’m going to cut you open,” he promised. “I will drive my knife in you from your neck to your—what the fuck? You—” His words ended in a gurgle.

Harper had just jumped on his back. She still gripped part of the rope that had bound her to the chair, and she yanked it across his neck, pulling back with all of her strength.

Carmichael stabbed backward with his knife. It cut across Harper’s arm, but she held on tighter. She made no sound when he sliced her. Just seemed to yank the rope harder.

Charlotte hurtled toward them. She kicked out with her right foot, aiming a brutal blow toward Carmichael’s left knee. He shouted at the impact, and his left leg seemed to give out beneath him. He toppled toward the floor, but he sliced out with the knife once more, a vicious, forward slice, narrowly missing Charlotte this time because she was so close to him.

Harper hung on to him, still yanking hard and choking him with the rope. “How do you like it when someone hurts you—” Harper began as both of his knees hit the mat of the cage.

His head bobbed back, hitting Harper in the face. Then he grabbed her arm and threw Harper off him.

Harper collided with the side of the cage. No voltage. But a moan of pain slid from her.

Carmichael tried to scramble back to his feet. The rope dangled around his neck. Before he could get fully upright, Charlotte grabbed the rope, each hand catching a side, and she wrenched the rope tight, locking it around his neck and using it to cut into his skin because her grip was that strong and fierce.

But he sliced her thigh with the knife that he just would not drop. A deep, painful slice. She hissed out a breath and dodged behind him, still holding the rope in place. She’d use the rope and choke him out. He would go down.

He jabbed the knife back at her. The tip pierced into her shoulder.

She didn’t let him go.

And he…

Sagged forward.

Yes! His strength was waning. She could see it. Feel it. She could⁠—

He brought the knife up. Sliced through the rope. Sliced his own neck in the process and the blood flowed in a stream, but he was free. Carmichael whirled toward her with the knife even as Harper screamed and tried to stagger forward and⁠—

“You stay the fuck away from my wife!” Logan was in the cage. He grabbed Carmichael’s shoulder and spun him around.

Carmichael lifted his bloody knife.

But Logan slammed a fist into his face. A fist—one covered with brass knuckles so the blow was jaw breaking.

Even as Charlotte heard the crunch of bones, Logan raised his left hand. The hand that gripped a knife. My knife. Because, of course, she recognized it. Her favorite knife. Her father’s knife.

Logan drove it deep into Carmichael’s chest. One hard, vicious plunge. A plunge straight in his heart.

A gurgle broke from Carmichael’s lips. His body slumped. He lost the grip on his weapon. It clattered away. His fingers reached for his bleeding chest. As if he’d rip out the blade that had pierced him.

But Logan still gripped that knife, and he shoved it in even deeper. “You like cutting up women?” Logan twisted the knife hard to the side. The left. Then the right. “Let’s see how you like it.”

“Freeze!” A shout from the darkness.

Then…

Footsteps. Voices. Flashlights.

A female voice blasted, “Las Vegas PD!”