"It's okay," she says, her tone frantic now. "It's okay," she repeats as my feet skid back on the floor and our bodies come apart.
Wildly, I reach for her, catching her hand just long enough to feel the warmth of her palm against mine. Then Coyote rips her away.
And she’s gone.
And I’m screaming.
I whirl on the bastard who had his hands on me with a savagery I didn't even know I was capable of. The room fills with a scream that I'm not entirely sure is mine as I go for his eyes. His face. His fucking throat. Using everything Seven taught me in the few hand-to-hand combat lessons we had at the cabin.
But he's so much bigger. So much stronger.
And the panic blaring in my chest makes my movements sloppy and rushed.
I manage to get a good shot at his balls, and he grunts, but gets me around the arms, bear-hugging me to stop me fighting.
I smash my head into his face as hard as I can.
His grip falters enough that I can wrench free as blood pours in a river down his face from his split nose, but I fall to my knees when I turn. Unsteady on my feet as the world tips sideways and spins from the bell ringing in my head.
I scramble to my feet, but my arms are captured from behind, and I'm yanked back.
I freeze when I realize what's happening on the other side of the office.
Diana stands with her arms rigid at her sides, her chest rising and falling slowly, shallowly, as all the color drains from her face.
Behind her stands Coyote, his sidearm pointed directly at the back of her head.
I don't dare breathe or blink.
"She's a fighter, this one," Ambrose muses, calmly going to his wife.
"Don't touch her!" I snap when he reaches to caress her cheek. No, not caress her. He's slipping the necklace around her neck, securing the clasp before meticulously setting the charm against her throat.
She stands perfectly still, the loathing in her ocean eyes crystal clear from across the room.
"If only you hadn't run, Diana. We could've been a family. With your guile and her fire, we'd have been unstoppable together."
Ambrose's hand drops from her collar, and he reaches past her, hand out to Coyote. "Give me your gun."
I shake my head, start trying to pull free again.
No.
No, this isn't going to happen.
"Sir?" Coyote asks, confused.
"This is personal. I'll see it done myself."
I don't wait for Coyote to hand Ambrose the gun. In the struggle, we moved closer to the desk, and I use his grip around my middle to my advantage, lifting my legs to kick against the side of the desk as hard as I can.
It's enough to send us backward until the man holding me connects with the shelves. Glass shatters and wood breaks, and something hard strikes my shoulder, but I ignore the pain as I go for the first sharp object my attention snags on.
The marble tumbler is knocked over as I grab the scissors from it, spilling pens over the desk.
Time skips, and there's only heat and fury as I sink the pointed tip into his meaty neck, not stopping until he isn't fighting. I push deeper until he gurgles and slumps into the broken shelves.
My hand is wet, the scissors slippery in my palm when I turn to charge Ambrose.
