Page 113 of Pretty Savage: Defy

His right hand is held low against his leg. There’s a flash of silver. A blade.

I step outside the path of his charge and catch his wrist before he can drive the knife into my stomach. His shoulder slams into mine. I turn with the impact, wrenching his arm behind him until the joint gives with a dull pop.

He doesn’t cry out.

That tells me more than the weapon does.

A member of the household staff would panic. Beg. Freeze.

This man drives his head backward, trying to break my nose.

I avoid the blow and bury my fist in his kidney. His body folds enough for me to hook an arm around his neck and drag him off balance. The knife falls from his hand and skitters across the marble.

He reaches inside his jacket.

I drive my dagger through his palm before he can pull out whatever he has concealed there.

His mouth opens on a garbled yell. I rip the blade free, turn it, and shove it under his ribs.

His body jerks once.

Then his weight falls against me.

Laurel makes a sound behind me. A broken inhale that raises the hair along my arms.

I look back.

She stands against the wall with one hand pressed over her mouth. Her face has gone pale, and her eyes move from the man hanging on my blade to the blood running over my knuckles.

She’s seen me with blood on my hands before but has never watched me kill.

I see myself through her eyes. The dagger buried in another man’s body. The lack of hesitation before I put it there.

Only hours ago, she held this same knife without fear and told me she loved me.

Now she’s watched me use it to take a life.

Will she be scared of me after this? Will she still love me?

A gun fires from the dining room.

There’s no time to find out.

I twist, using the dead man as a shield. The bullet punches through his back. Laurel screams as I drive both of us toward the wall.

“Down!”

She crouches beside a marble console table while I shove the body away, pulling the dagger out.

Another server stands in the dining-room doorway, gun raised in both hands. He glances at the dead man at my feet like it doesn’t faze him at all. He adjusts his aim and advances.

I grab a heavy glass vase from the console table and throw it. He jerks aside as it shatters against the doorframe. His shot goes wide, tearing a hole through the portrait behind me.

I cross the distance before he can correct his aim.

My left hand knocks the pistol away from my chest. My right drives the dagger into the muscle above his elbow. His fingers open, and I catch the weapon as it falls before slamming it across his temple.

He staggers but stays upright.