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I slash another man across the stomach as he rushes us and answer without missing a beat, “I’d enjoy it more if you bled out.”

“Noted.”

A fourth guard barrels in from the left. Before I can get there, Kento grabs him by the collar and drives his head straight into the concrete pillar beside us.

There’s blood everywhere now.

On the floor. On my sleeves. Across Kento’s knuckles.

And I hate myself a little for how good he looks with violence on him.

He wipes one hand over his jaw. “Top floor.”

I follow his gaze. At the top of the stairs, half-shadowed by the railing, stands Maksim Vetrov.

Younger than his reputation, which is always disappointing. Hair gone damp at the temples, and he’s wearing an expensive coat thrown over loungewear, because we’ve dragged him out of whatever luxurious little den he was rotting in. He has a gun in one hand, but it’s shaking.

I grin. “There you are.”

His eyes flick between me and Kento, taking in the bodies and the fact that all his brave little men are now decorating the warehouse floor in pieces.

He takes one step back.

Coward.

Kento looks at me, and then we both sprint.

Maksim turns and runs up the last few steps toward the office corridor, and we hit the staircase at the same time, shoulder to shoulder.

He is not beating me. Absolutely the fuck not.

I shove at Kento’s ribs with my forearm. He catches me by the back of the neck.

His hand closes, dragging me half off balance as we take the stairs two at a time, and I snarl, twisting under his grip.

“Get the fuck off.”

“You first.”

I elbow him, and he laughs.

I slash toward him with the knife in my right hand, not to kill, just to slow him, but he catches my wrist mid-strike and slams it into the railing hard enough to make my fingers loosen.

“You cheating bastard,” I spit.

Maksim crashes through the office door at the top, panicked, scrambling.

I wrench free and surge upward. Kento grabs my jacket from behind and hauls me back one step. I twist, slam into him, and then we’re both tangled on the narrow stairs, fighting each other more than the target.

His hand slides from my shoulder to my throat. My entire body reacts in the single worst possible way.

My knife hand falters, and that costs me.

Kento uses the opening to grab my wrist again and wrench one of the blades clean from my grip.

“Mine,” he murmurs.

And then he moves.