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His hand clamps around my throat.
Absolutely fucking not.
I drive my knee up between his legs. He grunts, grip loosening, and I claw at his forearm, nails digging deep enough to tear skin. He jerks back with a shout, and I shove him off hard enough that he rolls into the leaves.
Poppy’s bowstring snaps.
A wet choke cuts through the trees.
The man who grabbed for her staggers backward, one hand flying to his throat. An arrow sticks out beneath his jaw. He just stands there, eyes bulging, mouth working around a sound that won’t come. Blood bubbles over his lower lip, bright and thick, running down his neck in uneven streams.
Poppy stands ten feet away, bow shaking in her hands.
The man hits his knees, clawing at the arrow like he can pull his life back inside his body. Then he tips forward and lands face-first in the dirt.
Dead.
Poppy just killed a man.
The thought hits hard, but I can feel the horror of it later. Right now, my daughter is alive because she did what she had to do.
The man I clawed gets to his feet again, face twisted with rage. “You little bitch.”
He rushes me.
Wrong choice.
I grab a heavy rock half-buried in the leaves, slick with mud and moss. He swings, and his fist catches my cheek hard enough to make my vision spark. I go with it, drop lower, then come up swinging.
The rock connects with his mouth.
Teeth break under my hand.
He screams, stumbling back, blood pouring over his chin. I hit him again before he can recover. The rock smashes into his cheekbone with a wet crunch. Skin splits. Bone shifts wrong beneath the surface.
He falls to one knee.
You wouldn’t have made it far anyway.
My grip tightens.
Not today, asshole.
The man reaches for my ankle.
I bring the rock down on his skull.
Once.
A hollow crack.
He twitches.
Again.
His head jerks to the side, blood spraying across dead leaves.
Again.
