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I focus on the problem at hand. Whats and ifs and hows don’t help me stay alive.

“I’ll do it. I’ll send him money—I promise.”

“I don’t give a shit about promises. Do itnow.”

Hands trembling, I reach for my phone. I can’t transfer a substantial amount remotely without extra security, but this guy doesn’t know that, and I have to at least pretend to comply, so he leaves me alone.

My eyes dart to the crowd around us, all of them focused on the festivities, the stands, the balloons and music. The parade must have started.

He’s in close quarters, and to an onlooker not really paying attention, it must have seemed like we were a couple embracing or something.

It takes me two tries to unlock the device. “I don’t—” I swallow. “I don’t have my father’s number.”

“Fucking bitch,” he groans, looking down to his own pocket to retrieve his own phone.

It occurs to me that if there was ever a time to run, it would be now. Except, a flick of his wrist would be enough for him to stab me in a fucking artery, so I don’t chance it.

He’s staring down to grab his phone, when a passerby in a beanie, head down, approaching from behind me suddenly turns, grasping the hand holding the knife by the wrist, and twisting it behind his back.

I step back as he grabs the knife and wordlessly, seamlessly, shoves it into my aggressor’s back.

The man screams, but the man in the gray beanie wraps his hand around his mouth, before withdrawing the knife.

I watch wordlessly, eyes wide. Callum pockets the knife and holds the limp body by the shoulders, like he’s helping a drunk friend stand up. He even pats his back and says, “There, there. You just don’t know when to stop, do you, friend?”

My eyes scan around us. There are a couple of people heading towards the parade, none of them watching us.

On autopilot, without checking, I grab the guy’s other shoulder, and help Callum bring him to the closest bench.

Holy fucking shit. He killed him. Easily. He aimed for the heart and it was over in an instant. Like he knew just where to plunge the blade.

It should be terrifying. I should question why my boyfriend knew, without a single moment of hesitation, how to end a life.

Ishouldn’tbe sick to my stomach at the idea that he might be taken away from me if anyone found out he justkilled someone.

After we’ve dropped the guy on the bench, Callum brings his arms around my shoulders, and holds me tight, hands soothingly caressing my back.

I don’t know how long we’ve been like this when I realize that this isn’t smart. We should…go away. Wipe the evidence. Destroy the knife?

“He was…” I croak. “He was?—”

“Shhh. He’s never going to hurt you again. No one is.”

“But,” I insist. “He was sent by my father.My father!”

Callum hesitates. Then all he says is, “Hm.”

I sob, soaking his shirt.

“It’s me.”

I lift my head, surprised to see Callum on the phone.

“I need a cleanup crew—the grove by the palace. Self-defense.” Pause. “He was after Liv.”

He’s calling someone. Does that mean it’ll be okay? Now I can think vaguely clearly, I realize he’s right. It was self-defense. The knife, my cut, maybe even some city cameras—they can prove it.

We’ll be okay. Right?