Page 157 of Where the Snakes Sleep

I absolutely should stop.

Instead, bleeding, restrained, furious, and apparently determined to discover exactly how much damage a seventy-seven-year-old man can still do with a cane, I smile at him. “Sinon, comment croyez-vous que Ryan existe ?” Otherwise, how do you think Ryan exists?

Henri moves; the cane comes up so quickly that I barely register the motion, then crashes against the side of my head.

Light bursts across my vision, and there is no room, no floor, no Henri. Only white, then black, then a violent smear of both.

My body pitches sideways, caught before I hit the floor by the man behind me, although my knee slams painfully against the marble.

Sound comes back strangely, muffled.

I blink.

There are two Henris.

Then three.

They sway over one another while I try to force my eyes to focus. Warmth spills down the side of my face.

At first I think it is sweat, but when it reaches my eye, red washes across half my vision.

Blood.

I blink again, and the room takes on a crimson filter.

Henri stands over me, breathing hard. So much for detached superiority.

I laugh. It comes out wet and uneven. “J’ai touché un point sensible ?” Did I hit a nerve?

Henri’s expression twists, and he lifts the cane again.

The man behind me tightens his grip, perhaps anticipating the second strike.

I cannot tell whether I am about to duck; I do not think I could if I tried.

Then a voice cuts through the room. “Stop it.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid as Henri’s cane stops in midair and the men all turn.

I know that voice.

No.

My vision refuses to cooperate as I wrench my head toward the doorway, blood slipping into my eye again.

A figure stands there, so very small compared with the men around him.

“Ry—an?” His name comes out broken. Everything inside me turns to horror. “Ryan, what the fuck are you doing?”

His eyes find mine, widening, then narrowing at the blood running down my face.

He looks furious.

Not at Henri—at me.

Because apparently confessing that I love Ryan Smith and then instructing him to leave me to armed men was not, in retrospect, a strategy likely to produce obedient compliance.

One of the intruders moves toward him.