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Sweet moves first.

The palette knife flashes.

She drives it backward into his thigh.

Razor howls.

I move.

Sweet drops as his arm loosens. He catches the back of her shirt and tears fabric while she goes to one knee. Razor staggers, blood soaking through his jeans, but one hand is still free.

He turns toward Sweet, his free hand rising like he means to hit her.

I hit him first.

We go down hard.

My gun skids across concrete because we're too close and a clean shot is gone.

Razor fights mean and fast.

A knife appears in his hand from under his jacket.

The first slice burns across my forearm.

I drive my fist into his mouth.

Teeth crack.

He spits blood and laughs. “She cried over you.”

I hit him again.

“She thought you loved her.”

Again.

Then he says, “Did you?”

My fist stops for half a beat.

Not because I don't know.

That's the problem.

I know.

God help me, I fucking know.

But Sweet is ten feet away, bleeding from one knee, terrified, her mother’s picture beside a sixty-foot drop while an abusive bastard tries to turn every feeling in this place into another weapon against her.

I do not get to throw love at her now.

Not like a rope she has to grab.

Not like saying it while saving her means she owes me anything afterward.

Half a beat.