I meet his eyes one more time. Let him see exactly what he wants to see—submission, need, desperation.
Then I grab the knife, yank it free from its sheath, and drive it straight into his side.
He gasps, eyes going wide with shock.
I twist the blade hard before ripping it out.
Blood sprays hot across my hand, my wrist, the bars between us.
He stumbles backward, hand flying to the wound, mouth opening to scream.
I lunge for the keys still hanging at his belt.
My fingers close around the ring just as he jerks away, gasping, stumbling to the ground.
No.
I reach through the bars as far as I can, straining against the metal, but he’s already moving—too fast, too far, instinct overriding the pain long enough to get him out of reach.
“Fuck,” I spit.
He hits the wall near the door, blood soaking through his shirt, face white with shock and rage.
For one second, we just stare at each other.
Him bleeding. Me gripping a knife through the bars.
Then his hand goes to his side again and comes away red.
His eyes narrow.
“You fucking—”
He lunges for the cage door. My heart slams into my throat.
He’s going to open it.
He’s going to come in here and—The latch clicks.
The door swings wide.
I scramble backward, knife up, pulse hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
He steps inside, one hand clamped over his side, blood pouring through his fingers, the other fumbling at his back.
A gun.
Damn it.
His face is paler now. Eyes wild. Not in control anymore. Just hurt enough to be dangerous.
“Drop it,” he rasps.
I don’t.
His hand closes around the grip and yanks his gun free, arm shaking as he levels it at me.
For one brutal second, the world narrows to the black hole of the barrel pointed at my chest.
