The impact.
The way his body reacts.
My world tilts.
“No, no, no, no?—”
Paul turns toward me.
That smile back on his face.
That look in his eyes.
Possessive.
Delusional.
Wrong.
“Now,” he says softly, raising the gun again. “We can finally?—”
He doesn’t finish.
Because Benji is still moving.
Even shot.
Even bleeding.
He’s still moving.
He grabs Paul’s arm from behind, wrenching it back with a force that makes Paul scream—an actual scream, high and sharp and panicked.
The gun jerks upward.
Useless.
“I told you, touch her, even look at her,” Benji growls, his voice rough, dangerous, inhuman in its intensity, “and I will end you.”
Something flashes in his other hand.
I don’t even see where it comes from.
One second it’s not there—the next, I see it.
A blade.
Sharp.
Cold.
Final.
And then—a swift, brutal motion.
A line of red.
Paul’s eyes go wide.
