Then Viktor sat back down. The chair creaked under his weight.
"Fine." He waved a hand. Dismissive. "Your kill, your method. But I watch."
I nodded.
My hand went to my jacket pocket. The syringe was warm from my body heat. I pulled it out and walked back to her.
She was curled on the floor in the fetal position, arms wrapped around herself, her dress torn and dirty and spotted with blood. Her hair had fallen across her face, dark strands sticking to the wetness on her cheek.
She looked so small.
She'd never looked small to me before. Not in the alley the night we met, when she walked through blood without flinching. Not at the piano, where she filled a room with music. Not in bed, where she took everything I gave her and demanded more and made me feel like I was the one coming undone.
But here, on this floor, in this warehouse, with my knuckles torn and aching from the bruises I'd put on her body, she looked small.
I crouched beside her.
And I couldn't stop myself.
My hand went to her face, touching her softly. The first gentle thing I'd done since this started. My fingers found the swollen ridge of her cheekbone, then traced the line of her jaw the way I'd done a thousand times. The way my hands knew her in the dark. The way I'd memorized her because she was the only thing about this life that mattered.
She flinched.
And then she didn't.
She leaned into it. Into my hand. Into the touch of the monster who'd just beaten her bloody, because even now, even after this, she reached for me.
That thing in my chest that I couldn't identify and couldn't afford to feel nearly brought me to my knees. But Viktor was watching. I could feel his attention like a blade at my throat.
I pressed the needle to the inside of her elbow.
"Milo." My name.
My fucking name was the last thing she said.
I pushed the plunger.
The drug hit her bloodstream fast. I could see it working as the tension left her body in a wave, her muscles going slack, her breathing changing from the ragged rhythm of pain to something slower. Deeper. Quieter.
Her hand twitched once against the floor. Then went still.
Her eyes were nearly closed. Her lips were parted. And for a moment, in the dim light of the building, despite the blood on her face and the bruises blooming dark across her pale skin, she looked like she was sleeping.
Her breathing slowed.
And slowed.
And stopped.
My hand was on her throat. Positioned so my fingers covered her pulse point. Viktor stood and walked toward us, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.
One second.
Two.
Three.
The longest three seconds of my life.
