Her fingers wrap around my son’s throat.
And the worldstops.
One heartbeat.
His mouth opens but no sound comes out. He flails.
He slaps at her wrists, weak and panicked.
And something inside me tears open so violently I swear I feel it shoot through me like fire.
There’s no time.
My hand dives into my purse, fingers finding the grip. I yank the pistol free, fast but controlled—just like Hex taught me.
My thumb releases the safety.
His voice is in my head, steady and sure:
Breathe. Line it up. Look past the fear. Find the shot.
Ashley angles forward away from Bash, back exposed. I have a path. A clean one.
White-knuckled hands around his throat, she digs her fingers into the softness of his skin. His face flushes dark. I don’t even know if he sees me anymore. If he knows I’m here. If he knows his mom is watching this happen, helpless.
No.
Not helpless.
I raise the gun.
Every version of myself—the businesswoman, the mother, the fixer—breaks apart. All that’s left is the part of me that would bleed the world dry to save him.
And it’s enough.
My finger finds the trigger. I sight down the barrel.
Take the shot, Hex whispers.
I pull the trigger.
My boots hit the pavement before the truck is fully in park.
I break into a sprint. A shot rings out.
My chest seizes. I know that gun. I know who pulled that trigger.
I cut across the grass, heart hammering against my ribs as I round the edge of the playground.
Sable is standing ten feet from a bench, both hands gripping the gun just the way I taught her. Elbows locked, knees slightly bent. Not trembling. Steady. But her face is ghost-white, frozen in that moment after action, when your brain hasn’t caught up to what your body just did.
Ashley’s torso rests heavy on the bench, one leg folded beneath her, the other rooted in place—abandoned in a moment that came too fast to outrun. Her head lolls at an unnatural angle against the metal armrest. Blood blooms from her back in a quick, dark patch.
Dead.
Bash is coughing, choking back sobs as he scrambles away from her collapsed body. Purple marks darken around his throat. At the sound of her son’s pain, Sable drops the gun and gathers him against her, clutching him tight as if the world is still poised to take him away.
They fall together into the grass, a tangle of arms and hair and broken sounds.
