I stop a few feet away, my hands hovering in the air, trembling with a sudden, paralyzinghelplessness. I’ve killed so many times before, but I have never felt anything of it until now.
She heaves again, gasping for air. I take a step toward her, my boots crunching softly on the gravel.
She spins around, slamming her back against the fountain's edge. Her face is pale, her eyes wide and bloodshot. Tears streak down her cheeks. Her eyes fall on my hands before her breath hitches, her lip trembling.
"He's dead," she whispers to herself. Her voice cracks on the word. "He's actually dead."
"Katarina,"
"I wanted this," she chokes out, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth as if she's trying to hold back another sob. "I told myself I wanted this. And now I just—"
Her voice falters, shaking her head, her eyes squeezing shut. "They didn't even tell you who sent them. They died, and they didn't even give us anything. Mateo is still just—he's gone, and it means nothing." Her eyebrows knit together in despair.
The champagne satin of her dress reflects the moonlight, clinging to the stiff lines of her posture, trying to hide her still bruised body. She looks fragile, yet the venom in her voice is deadly.
"They killed Mateo, so I killed them," I say, my voice hardening. I take a tentative step forward. "They were going to sell you like livestock to men who make me look like a saint."
"I know," she says, and the two words come out wrecked. "I know what they were." She wraps her arms around herself, staring past me towards the basement door. "I watched you in there. The way you moved, the way you spoke to them. It’s like nothing to you. Like you've done it a hundred times."
"I have," I say.
I won't lie to her.
She lets out a short, broken sound. Her voice drops to a whisper. "It was so easy for you.”
“It is. Do I disgust you?” I ask.
Her eyes snap back to me with a pained look in them.
“I’m disgusted with myself!” she shouts.
“Why is that?”
“Because I feel good that he’s dead!” She grabs a fistful of dirt and rocks in one hand and throws them at my feet in her fit.
"What else do you feel?" I ask, my voice quieter than I intend.
She looks at me then, really looks at me, her eyes glistening.
"Sick," she whispers.
She turns away, the hem of her satin dress catching on a rose bush. The thorns rip through the fabric, scratching at the skin of her leg. She sinks into the dirt at the edge of the path, her legs giving out beneath her, dropping her face into her hands.
I stand there like an idiot, watching her shoulders shake. I have never felt more powerful and more pathetic at the same time.
I know how to end things. To hold a room full of dangerous men and make them fear for their souls. But I don’t know how to sit with someone who is breaking like this.
But I kneel anyway.
The gravel bites into my knees through the fabric of my trousers. I don't touch her at first. I lower myself until I am level with her, close enough that she knows I am there, and she stiffens.
"Don't," she mutters.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say.
A long silence. Then another sob tears through her, uglier than the last, and something in my chest cracks open. I reach out slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, and when shedoesn't, I pull her in. Her face against my chest, my arms closing around her.
She doesn't fight it. She grabs the front of my shirt and cries.
