Alexander’s fist came down. The sound of it was sickening.
Diana flinched, but she could not look away. Something held her there, rooted, watching as Alexander struck him again.
“You have done enough,” Alexander said, his voice cutting through Martin’s struggling breaths.
Martin laughed, though the sound was broken now. “She will never love you,” he rasped. “You think this makes you a hero? You think she will forget what you are?”
Alexander’s hand tightened in his collar, dragging him up just enough that their faces were inches apart. “This has nothing to do with what she thinks of me,” he said, his tone cold as steel. “It has everything to do with the fact that you will never lay a hand on her again.”
Diana’s chest tightened painfully.
Something inside her twisted, and for one breathless instant, the world narrowed to him. To the sheer, undeniable force of him. The strength in his body. The way he moved without hesitation. The way he had thrown himself into danger without a single thought for himself.
He had taken the bullet meant for her. The realization struck her all at once, full and devastating.
“Alexander—” Her voice broke.
He did not look at her. He was still focused, still braced, still containing the man beneath him as Martin struggled and cursed, his movements growing weaker with each passing second.
“Reins,” Alexander said sharply.
It took her a moment to understand.
Then she moved.
She dropped the pistol beside her and scrambled to the horse, her hands shaking as she reached for the leather reins. They were stiff, tangled, and it took her longer than she liked to free them, her fingers clumsy with urgency, but she managed it, tearing them loose and turning back at once.
Alexander still held Martin pinned to the ground, his breathing heavier now, the strain beginning to show in the tightening of his jaw, in the faint tremor she could see running through his arm. The blood on his coat had spread further.
Too much.
“Here,” she said, her voice unsteady as she knelt beside them.
“Good,” he muttered.
He shifted just enough for her to work, keeping Martin down with one hand while she bound his wrists, her movements hurried but firm, the leather cutting into his skin as she pulled it tight. Martin struggled once more, violently, but Alexander drove him back into the dirt with a brutal efficiency that left no room for resistance.
When she finished, Alexander did not rise at once. He looked down at Martin, his expression dark, unreadable, and then, without warning, he struck him one final time.
Martin’s head snapped to the side and his body went slack.
Silence fell. For a moment, nothing moved.
Then Alexander exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright.
Diana rose with him, the world tilting slightly as the adrenaline began to ebb just enough for everything to rush in at once—the cold air, the sharp scent of blood, the lingering echo of the gunshot.
“Driver,” Alexander said.
The man, who had been standing frozen near the horses, flinched as though only just remembering himself. “Y-Your Grace?—”
“Take your horse,” Alexander ordered, his voice still steady despite everything, “and ride for the nearest constable. Tell them Lord Tilbridge is to be taken into custody at once.”
The man nodded rapidly, scrambling to obey, mounting and riding off with desperate speed.
Only then did Alexander turn to look at her. And only then did Diana truly see the blood.
It had soaked through his coat entirely now, dark and spreading, the fabric clinging to his shoulder, to his arm, to his side. It was far worse than she had allowed herself to believe while everything else demanded her attention.
