“Over three years of nursing school,” I snap.
No hesitation, I drive the letter opener upward, aiming for the femoral triangle. The blade sinks deep into his inner thigh, sliding through the muscle and severing the artery with a sickening, wetthud.
Finn lets out a high-pitched, gurgling scream, his hands flying to the wound as blood begins to spray, hot and dark, across the desk and my own skin. He staggers back, his face turning a sickly gray in seconds.
I scramble off the desk, adrenaline tearing through my veins as I move toward the door.
It slides open, revealing Eamon Donovan holding a silenced pistol. He doesn’t look at me. His gaze locks over my shoulder, and he raises the gun.
That’s when I feel it—the rush of air at my back. The scrape of a shoe. A ragged snarl.
Three muted shots crack through the room.
I drop instinctively as Finn’s body jerks behind me. When I spin around, he’s just feet away, clenching the bloody letter opener, the blade poised for my spine.
His momentum falters. The blade wavers. Then his knees give out.
The letter opener slips from his hand as he collapses in a heavy heap. The twitching fades, then he goes still, his eyes vacant, lifeless.
Disgust curls Eamon’s upper lip. Not at me, but the bleeding mess on the floor.
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “I never cared for that weasel. He lacked…finesse.”
A fog of disbelief overcomes me. My throat squeezes as I struggle to process how the man who kidnapped me just helped save my life.
“Elexia.” Eamon’s tone shifts to severity. “I need to get you out of here.”
Reality snaps back into place.
“Fuck that. Liam!”
Bolting past Eamon, I burst back into the main penthouse room.
The scene is chaos.
Liam is a whirlwind of violence, battling three security guards at once. He’s taking hits, his face a mess of blood and bruises, but he’s not stopping. He’s a juggernaut, driven by an all-consuming rage.
But Darragh is recovering.
On his knees, blood and tea staining his navy suit, Darragh reaches for the gun I’d tossed earlier, the one that had slid under the sofa.
I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I just act.
I lunge for the gun, knees sliding across the polished floor. Pulse detonating, I close my fingers around the grip. Darragh’s hand is right there, his thick, calloused fingers scratching at the metal, but I’m faster. I’m smaller, sharper. I yank the gun toward me, rolling onto my back and bringing the weapon up, gripping with both hands, a strength I didn’t know I possessed.
“Stay away from him!” I scream.
Darragh rushes toward me, his face a mask of scalded rage, his hand clawing out.
I fire.BANG.
The recoil jars my shoulders, the sound splitting my eardrums. The bullet catches him square in the kneecap. He roars in agony, his leg buckling as he hits the floor, writhing, screams echoing. Death burns in his eyes. He tries to get up. I move back.
Beside me, Liam catches the final guard in a headlock.
I raise the gun again—until Eamon strolls into the area, approaching Darragh with an expression of absolute boredom.“Oh, stay down, Darragh. For God’s sake,” Eamon mutters, kicking his brother’s chest, keeping him down.
When two more guards suddenly turn the corner of the nearby hall, Eamon turns the gun on them. They fall before they can even blink.
