“Kirill, behind you!” Jordan gasps as a heavythudcomes from her direction.
My gut tightens. Fear slices through my heart like a fucking dagger, but I don’t have time to check on her.
The man with the crushed windpipe is back in action.
The drag of boots and the urgent sucking breaths prickle the back of my neck.
He barrels straight toward me, a long metal weapon in his hands. A fire poker he grabbed from a pile of clutter.
He’s desperate, his face purple and his eyes wild. Too fast and uncontrolled.
Too damn bad for him.
I let him blow past me before redirecting his sprint with a forearm against his back.
Purple Guy crashes face-first into the oak bookcase. The smack is wet and final.
He folds, no longer a threat.
Total, brutal quiet follows. My own breath, loud and ragged, reverberates through the space. Dracula sags down the wall, huffing out small, animalistic noises as he fades. He has thirty seconds of life left, maybe less.
Jordan!
Spinning, I spot the first man slumped on the floor near the desk. Red gushes from two deep slashes on his head, the one from when I dropped him, and a new gash.
Three pros, and I’m the one who remains vertical.
After that fuck-up, I know I shouldn’t be.
Skirting the desk, I find Jordan hunkered down against the far wall.
She clutches a bronze statue—a woman with upraised arms—that’s drenched in blood. Though Jordan’s crouching, she has a perfect stance. She’s wide and braced, with her eyes fixed on the chaos.
Ready to swing again if I need help.
I should be dead or dying. But I’m not because Jordan identified a threat I missed. I’d be fucked without the tactical advantage her illogical language gave me. Then she clobbered the last guy while I was busy.
Probably because he underestimated her too.
Lesson learned.
She just saved my life. Twice.
Everything inside me recalibrates, gears grinding. For days, I’ve written off Jordan’s worldview as a delusional liability. But that’s not what just happened here.
Her manifestation nonsense? Still bullshit. However, I can’t write off what’s underneath. A variable that just rewrote the odds.
Electric tension permeates the air.
I swallow hard and stare at her. “Spiky energy.”
Jordan’s breath shudders, her chest heaving at the torn neckline of her dress. Wild, wet hair frames her blood-smeared cheek.
She’s fucking beautiful.
“You should listen to me more often.” Reaching down, she picks up that damn wool jacket and shoves the fabric against my chest. “I have excellent energetic instincts.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to understand that.” I study her, searching for fear, for shock. I find only fierce, bright determination. “You okay? Did they get to you?”
