Page 308 of Sinister

If—when—I survive this, I will have some words with him.

“And last time I tried to intercept your parents, he conveniently showed up again to tell me that, without any evidence, my presence could be considered harassment, and he could very easily make it so I won’t ever have a job again.”

My brows go up. He did that? Well, at least he only threatened her and didn’t kill her.

No!

He should have killed her. If he had, I wouldn’t be here, in this precarious situation.

Good Lord, I can’t believe that for once I wish Sin had killed someone. I guess that’s another thing I’ll need to have words with him about. Less sparing and more killing—especially when someone is suspicious.

“I did not know about any of that,” I say in a small voice. Perhaps I can’t fight her off, but I can try to win her over? She’s a woman, after all, and I’m pregnant. Perhaps she will show me some mercy.

As if womanly solidarity is more important than whatever deal she has with that Valerion.

“Right. You don’t need to act anymore, Petra. I know everything. I saw everything.”

“You saw what?” My eyes widen.

If she is Sister Agatha, does that mean she’s immortal? Has she been watching me all this time, past-life me, too? Or is she only a reincarnation like me?

“Every single vile thing you’ve done. I will make sure you can never hurt anyone again.”

“But I never hurt anyone,” I cry out. Well, technically, anyone minus Snowden, but he doesn’t really count—he was damned anyway.

“Whatever you say,” she says flippantly. “You’re not getting away from me now. I have everything I need to finish you off.” She has a self-assured smirk on her face that only serves to make the panic inside my chest grow stronger.

Although my body is sore and tired, I will not die like this. So I try to think differently. If physically I cannot best her, I need to be smarter than her.

Her gun is a small distance away. There’s only the subtle glint of light in the otherwise dark tunnel.

Do I know how to shoot a gun? No. Do I intend to shoot it? And potentially kill her? I don’t know.

You’re only defending yourself, my inner voice tells me. It’s kill or be killed. Get it together, Valentine!

Fiona follows my gaze—and the decision is made for me.

Either she grabs it first, or I do. And there is only one option in which I prevail.

She runs over to get the gun at the same time that I launch for it.

I grab the hilt, she grabs the barrel. I pull on it with all my might, using my legs to kick at her and make her lose her balance. She does the same with me, but compared to her, I need to protect my belly.

That means I pull back to avoid getting hit, and my hand slips over the handle. I dig my nails into the metal, feeling them snap at the tips. She swivels to the side and brings my arm over her shoulder, hitting the inside of my elbow in an attempt to get me to release the gun.

I won’t do it. I can’t do it.

One hit. Two hits. The pain travels through me at lightning speed. My hand becomes slack. But just as I feel as though I am about to drop the gun, I press my foot on the back of her knee with enough strength, and her hold weakens.

“Fuck,” she curses as her knee gives out. I wrench my hand away, pulling on the gun, but Fiona isn’t letting go.

She backhands me across the face so hard I see stars.

“Let go!” she demands. “Take your hands off my goddamn gun.”

“No chance in hell,” I grit out, pulling on it even harder.

In our struggle, the gun has nestled between our chests. We’re facing each other at close range, each pulling on one half of the gun. Although I’m afraid the gun could go off at any point, I don’t give up—I’m doomed either way. I could gamble, or I could let her kill me. I will always choose the latter.