His own forward charge makes the impact brutal. He skids out across the hardwood, colliding with the wall. The thud of his head hitting the drywall stuns him. Loud, but not loud enough to catch anyone’s attention.
He’s temporarily out for now.
Two down.
Unfortunately, that play buys his partner just enough time to try to land a hit.
Moustache punches, clipping my jaw as I spin back to face him.
My jaw’s already clenched, so the assault doesn’t even rattle my teeth, but the blow still hits like a knife against bone. I’m damn lucky he missed.
I close the gap so I can crowd him before he can pull back another fist.
My elbow smashes into his throat. Muscle and cartilage crumble beneath my touch.
He staggers, both hands raised up as he chokes on wet, ugly gasps.
Not out, but definitely compromised. I bought us a few seconds before he adapts.
Jordan’s voice cuts through the noise behind me. “Kirill, the other guy! His aura is borrowing light!”
What does that even mean?
I spot her standing behind the desk with flushed cheeks and pointing toward the wall where Dracula fell.
But the imminent threat is in front of me. The big man, Moustache, keeps fighting. He’s the one who matters.
Every former instructor taught me to neutralize the active danger first, then sweep for leftovers.
As the choking man starts to recover, his hand dips to his waistband.
I need to endhim.
Jordan snaps again. “No, the other one! His energy is spiky!”
The way she shouts—not with fear or panic but with absolute authority—stops me in my tracks.
I check behind me.
Dracula, the man I’d written off, pushes to his feet.
In his good hand, a serrated knife flashes silver.
Spiky.
Because I react late, the knife slices my shirt. Adrenaline dispels the sting, but the cold edge of the blade against my chest still jolts me.
If I hadn’t shifted, that knife would be deep between my ribs.
Jordan’s voodoo just saved my life.
I almost died because I ignored her. Because I trusted old training over a new variable, even though I know the battlefield is always changing.
Fuck.
I dart backward, pinning the knife-wielder to the wall with my weight.
His skull meets plaster, and the blade clatters free. His eyes go glassy, but I don’t have time to finish the job.
