He exhaled lazily.
“Keep going,” he said, leaning back against the wall like we were watching a private performance. “I’m enjoying the show.”
I barely registered his voice.
When Hargrove finally went limp—his body collapsing under the weight of my rage—his eyes rolled back and his mouth fell open in a slack, broken expression.
I stopped.
Chest heaving.
Knuckles split open and bleeding so badly my hands felt slick.
The silence after violence was deafening.
I stared down at him.
Broken.
Ruined.
The man who had believed himself untouchable was now sprawled at my feet like trash thrown aside.
Something inside me snapped.
My body moved before my mind could fully process what I was doing.
I lunged for movement—not away—but forward.
Harris’s dagger was strapped to his belt.
I saw it.
I grabbed it.
Swift. Practiced.
His hand shot toward his gun the moment he realized what I intended—but I was already faster.
Training.
Instinct. Survival.
I drove the blade down.
It sank deep into Hargrove’s groin.
He screamed.
His body jerked violently under me.
I pulled the knife out and stabbed again—deliberate. Targeting the place where power had always translated into dominance for him.
Blood poured.
He convulsed.
“STOP—” he choked.
