Then he drives the heel of his hand into Nathaniel’s face, a brutal strike that whips Nathaniel’s head to the side. The man’s grip slides down and closes around the syringe barrel.
It’s happening too fast. Way too fast.
For one heartbeat, they both have it, pulling back and forth like the world has narrowed to that single point of struggle. I feel myself teeter on the edge of panic, the familiar freeze trying to lock my limbs in place, and I have to wrench myself out of it. Because I will be damned if something happens to Nathaniel right in front of me.
Cassian’s voice from earlier slices through the static in my head.If it comes down to it, you shoot. Don’t hesitate.My body moves before my courage can catch up. My hand slips under my jacket, finds the gun, and drags it free. I raise it with both hands, arms tight, breath shaking, trying to make my vision steady.
Nathaniel and the man grapple again. It’s really ugly. Nathaniel tries to kick his knee out, tries to wedge his forearm under the man’s throat, triesanythingto break the hold. Butthe man answers with a brutal elbow driven into Nathaniel’s ribs and Nathaniel’s grip loosens.
Just a fraction.
And that fraction is everything.
The man yanks the syringe free. My finger finds the safety before I even realize I’m doing it, and I aim, when, in one fast, horrifying motion, the man plunges the syringe into Nathaniel’s side.
For half a second, Nathaniel’s body doesn’t understand what happened. Then it does. His breath catches like it’s been stolen; his pupils blow wide; his knees give out as if someone cut the strings holding him up.
“No,” I whisper, the word scraping out of my throat. He tries to take a step and doesn’t make it. He hits the asphalt with a blunt, sickening thud that reverberates straight through my bones.
Fuck. Oh,fuck.
Everything inside me goes hollow, then floods with fire. I don’t think. I just pull the trigger.
The man ducks. He ducks like he knows exactly what my body is about to do, and when. His shoulders drop, his head snapping down and to the side, and the shot doesn’t take him.
It takes something behind him.
A groan cuts through the noise, a sound that makes my heart stutter because I know it. Cassian. I blink once, stunned, and he’s suddenly there behind the man, close enough to touch him, one hand wrapped around a syringe, his whole body angled to drive it in. My bullet goes straight into him. It knocks him back half a step like a cruel shove, and a harsh sound tears out of him. He drops to his knees.
No.
No, no, no.
My fingers go numb around the gun. I don’t even register it when it slips from my hand and clatters to the ground. For aheartbeat, the entire parking lot freezes. Then someone screams, and another voice joins it, and chaos erupts. Sirens wail closer.
What have I just done?
The man’s head whips toward Cassian first, then toward me. His eyes are bright in a way that doesn’t feel made for humans, more like for the wraiths, and he spots the gun on the ground. He moves for it.
My body reacts on pure instinct. I lunge.
His hand clamps around my wrist mid-reach.
It’s a fucking iron grip.
Pain flashes white-hot up my forearm as he twists, yanking me sideways. My shoulder screams. My boots skid over grit and oil stains and salt, and I stumble into him instead of away. My chest slams into his. He uses my momentum, turns me, and drives me hard into the van’s side panel. The impact punches the breath out of me so violently my vision sparks.
“Fuck,” I choke, trying to drag air back into my lungs.
His forearm presses into my throat. His mouth moves. He’s saying something but all I hear is blood roaring in my ears and the distant panic exploding around us. A woman shrieks, high and frantic. Someone yells, “Call 112!”
I rip the switchblade from my hip.
The blade snaps open.
I slash on instinct.
He catches my wrist again and wrenches it outward until pain detonates up to my elbow. The knife slips from my grip, clattering under the van and vanishing into shadow.
