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She managed a single yelp and kneed him, breaking the connection, but he was determined to end her life. He scrambled over her just as I grabbed him by the back of the neck.

Roaring, I pitched him backward and into the coffee table. The glass shattered, sending boxes of donuts tossed in either direction.

The fucker wouldn’t stay down, instantly scrambling to his feet. I caught him again, issuing not one, but two brutal punches into his face. Blood spewed from his nose, the bones cracking under the pressure.

He threw out his arm, the blade finding mine. There was no pain as the cold, hard steel sliced into my forearm. Physical anguish had never bothered me. Neither had death. Death was simply apart of our cruel world where only the top dogs were allowed to eat prime filet, the others littered with scraps of bone meal.

Power was all that mattered in my world.

Or it had been.

But like death, the lust for it would eventually take everything from me.

As it had my brother.

But I refused to allow Genevieve to be taken from me. Seeing her face and the cut on her lip further enraged me.

The fucker was going to die.

However, in reacting to the assailant’s actions, I managed to drop my gun. It was just as well. I’d much prefer using my two hands. I punched him again.

And again.

I was aware my lovely bride had shot to the floor, scooping up my gun in the process. I’d seen her in action, had felt her resolve that was stronger than most men I’d dealt with, yet I could smell her fear today.

She didn’t need to worry. This would all be over with soon.

I smashed the asshole’s arm holding the knife, but he refused to give it up. He managed to pummel his other fist into my gut and I was momentarily winded. That allowed him to drive the knife to within centimeters of my chest just above my heart.

The fucker was stronger than he looked.

Fuck.

“No. No!” Genevieve yelled and when I jerked the guy to the side, I caught a full glimpse of her.

She was holding the gun in both hands, shaking like a leaf. But there was no mistaking the look on her face.

The woman would take the shot if possible.

We pitched and rolled, glass crunching under me as I managed to turn the blade around. Gritting my teeth, I glared into the asshole’s eyes as I pushed myself even harder until the tip of the blade nicked his skin.

He laughed and returned the favor, the dance we were doing one that would ultimately lead to at least one death.

Dear God, I was bloodthirsty.

Sweat poured off me as we struggled. Fucking Moroccan piece of shit. The dance was getting on my nerves. With another burst of energy, I jerked both arms, the maneuver managing to do exactly what I wanted.

It snapped his arm in half.

He howled briefly but continued to try to stab me.

I snatched the blade from his hand, threw my arm back in an arch and brought it down.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.