The cartilage gives under my fingers with a sensation I will remember for the rest of my life—a wet, structural collapse. The trachea deforming under the pressure of ten fingers that have broken bones and held weapons and touched the face of the man this animal tried to kill.
His eyes bulge. His mouth opens. The sound that comes out isn't a scream anymore—it's a whistle. The noise of air forcing through a crushed passage.
His hands claw at my wrists. The left one flaps uselessly. The right one scratches, digging furrows into my skin.
I don't feel it. I don't feel anything except the pulse under my thumbs, fast and erratic.
The pulse stops.
His hands fall.
I stay there.
My fingers are still locked around his throat. The body beneath me is still. The warehouse is silent—the remaining shooters have fled or are dead, neutralized by Alessandro or Rory's warnings or their own cowardice.
"Killian."
Alessandro's voice. Behind me. Close.
I look down at my hands. They are wrapped around a dead man's throat. The knuckles are white. Blood—his, from the shoulder wound—has coated my forearms.
I let go. The release is harder than the grip. My fingers are locked in a spasm of violence. I force them open. One by one.
The dead man's throat bears the deep, red impression of my hands.
I stand up. My legs are shaking. Not from exhaustion. From the crash. From the chemical aftermath of the rage.
"He touched you."
The words come out hoarse. Wrecked.
It’s the only explanation. The only reason I crushed a man's windpipe with my bare hands while active shooters were in the room.
Because he touched the person I?—
The person I?—
Alessandro steps toward me.
He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't look at the body. He doesn't recoil from the blood on my arms or the look on my face.
He stops in front of me.
His hand comes up. His fingers—steady, always steady—cup the side of my face. The touch lands on my blood-slicked skin.
"I know," he says.
His voice is quiet. His eyes hold mine. There is no fear. No horror. Just recognition.
He sees the monster. And he doesn't step back.
"Let's go home," he says.
His hand stays on my face. The warmth of his palm seeps into my skin, grounding me.
"Okay," I say.
My voice doesn't sound like mine. It sounds like something pulled from the wreckage.
