He steps closer—exactly what I need.
Orlov raises the detonator, his thumb hovering over the red button. “Perhaps I’ll start with your pretty little hacker. Watch what’s left of her brain paint these pristine lawns.”
His thumb comes down hard on the button. Once. Twice. Three times.
Nothing happens.
The dawning realization on his face is exquisite—confusion giving way to understanding, then panic.
“Something wrong with your toy?” I ask, lips curling.
I don’t wait for his response. I surge upward, my fist connecting with his throat before he can call for backup. He staggers, gasping, the detonator clattering to the ground. I kick it away and drive my knee into his stomach, following through with an elbow to the base of his skull as he doubles over.
Orlov recovers faster than expected, drawing a concealed blade from his sleeve. He slashes wildly, catching my forearm as I block. The pain barely registers through the adrenaline flooding my system.
“You think you’re so clever,” he hisses, blood spraying from his lip as we grapple.
I grab his wrist, applying pressure to the nerve until his fingers spasm and the knife drops.
Orlov and I circle each other, a deadly dance of precision and fury. Blood drips from the gash on my arm, but the pain only sharpens my focus. He’s stronger than I anticipated, fighting with the desperation of a man who knows his life hangs in the balance.
“Your family dies tonight, Blackwood,” he spits, producing another blade from his jacket.
I dodge his first strike, landing a solid blow to his kidney that makes him stumble. “You overestimate yourself, Ilya. Always have.”
His next attack is vicious—a flurry of slashes that forces me to retreat. I regain ground quickly, calculating each move as I drive him toward the fountain. I’m winning, wearing him down with methodical precision, when his boot connects with my knee. Pain explodes through my leg as something tears.
I falter, just for a second. It’s enough for Orlov to gain the advantage. His blade arcs toward my throat—a killing blow I won’t be able to block.
A blur of emerald green flashes between us. Sadie. She drives the signal jammer into Orlov’s wrist with surprising force. He howls, the knife clattering to the ground as she follows through with an elbow to his face.
“Get away from him,” she hisses.
I recover instantly, tackling Orlov to the ground while he’s disoriented. Three strikes later, he’s unconscious, blood streaming from his broken nose.
Heavy footsteps approach as Xavier, Vane, and Knox rush into the garden, weapons drawn. Orlov’s remaining men scatter into the darkness, abandoning their leader without hesitation.
“Took you long enough,” I mutter, binding Orlov’s wrists with his own belt.
Vane kneels beside the unconscious Russian, his green eyes gleaming with violent intent. “Just like we discussed? The warehouse by the pier?”
“Perfect,” I nod. “Three days should be sufficient.”
Knox’s face contorts with rage. “After what he did to Bianca? Make it a week.”
“We got her back,” Xavier reminds him, though his voice holds no comfort.
“Doesn’t matter,” Knox snarls. “She still wakes up scared. I want him to suffer twice as long as she did. I want him begging for death before we’re through.”
I glance at Sadie, standing slightly apart, arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes are wide, taking in this new reality—the violence we’re discussing.
“He’ll never touch anyone we care about again,” I promise.
Anyone we care about.
My own statement reverberates in my mind, striking a dissonant chord.Care.The word feels foreign and uncomfortable in my thoughts.
I stare at Sadie, her emerald dress torn at the hem, blood—not hers—spattered across the bodice.
