“Willow.”
My head turns before I can stop it.
Phoenix takes his chance. He drives an elbow into my jaw. Pain detonates. I hit the edge of the counter, stagger, nearly go down.
He rushes for the knife again, shouting something incoherent. I barely hear it. The sound of Willow’s pain fills everything.
And something inside me snaps.
The edges of the room blur. My vision narrows to a single point—him.
He swings. I catch his wrist, twist, and feel the knife drop. I don’t stop. I shove him back, fists flying—one, two, three. He tries to guard, but I’m faster, stronger, meaner. Years of quiet control tear open all at once.
He clips my ribs; I don’t feel it. I drive him down onto the floor, my hands closing around his throat.
“You’re too fucking late to save her,” he chokes out, his eyes bulging.
The door crashes open behind me.
“Lucky!”
Dad, Henrik, and Einar flood in, weapons drawn. Mom and Vivi are right behind them.
I don’t look away from Phoenix. “Back room,” I shout. “Go!”
They run. Mom’s voice breaks when she sees what’s inside.
I don’t hear the words.
Phoenix’s hands claw at mine, but I tighten harder, pressing him into the floor. He’s going red, gasping, still trying to speak.
For one perfect, awful second, I want to end him. I want to feel everything he took from her stop beating.
Then I hear the sound again—a broken, breathless sound.
My grip falters.
I can’t.
Phoenix did this toWillow. He washertarget.
It’s Willow who needs to get retribution for everything Phoenix has done.
So, somehow in the blind, red haze of death and destruction, I find the willpower not to kill him.
I lean forward to stare him straight in the fucking eyes. “She gets to finish this,” I whisper. Then I drive my forehead into his face.
He goes limp instantly.
I’m instantly climbing to my feet, shoving Phoenix toward my father and my uncles. Adrenaline is burning through my blood as I stagger toward the hall.
The room at the end is small, windowless, wrong.
Willow’s lying on a bed, but her wrists are raw like she was tied to something earlier. Her face is white as chalk. Her clothes are soaked through. Sweat beads down her neck.
“Willow?” I breathe out as I collapse at her side. I press my hand to her face, pushing her hair off her forehead. She’s so damn cold.
She doesn’t even open her eyes. She just takes a ragged, labored breath in, and it slowly escapes her lips.
