Page 60 of Infamous

Across the street. Up the steps. The handle doesn’t turn. The door is locked, but it doesn’t last long under my shoulder. It gives with a crack that splits through the building.

The smell hits me first, and my mind screams at me that I’m too late. It’s the smell of blood and fear and something chemical that clings to my skin. Nadia’s on the floor, her face half hidden behind her hair, blood glistening down her chin. He’s above her, chest heaving, his body still coiled with self-righteous fury.

He turns at the noise, eyes wide, mouth halfway open to speak.

I don’t let him get a single word out.

My fist connects before the thought forms. The sound it makes isn’t human - it’s meat hitting meat, bone splitting under pressure. He reels back, trips on the corner of the coffee table, but I don’t stop. I follow him.

“Jude—” Nadia’s voice is small, broken, but I can’t hear her through the rush of blood in my ears.

I grab him by the collar, drag him upright just to drive my knee into his ribs. The breath leaves him in a grunt that sounds like surrender, but I’m past hearing apologies.

“You put your hands on her,” I snarl, shoving him into the wall hard enough that the plaster cracks. “You thought you could walk in here and hurt her?”

He coughs blood onto the floor, eyes wide, hands up like that’ll save him. “I didn’t - she - ”

The back of my hand shuts him up. His head snaps sideways, a crimson spray across the wallpaper.

Nadia whispers my name again, trembling, voice hoarse from crying or choking - I can’t tell which. I look down at her, and the sight wrecks me. Her eyes are glassy, her cheek already swelling, one sleeve torn, her hands shaking as she tries to push herself upright.

My heart’s still hammering, but it’s not rage anymore. It’s grief wearing the face of rage.

“Touch her again,” I snarl, “and I’ll cut your hands off.”

He gurgles something - defiance, fear, it doesn’t matter. I slam him once more for good measure, the crack echoing off the plaster, then let him crumple.

Behind me, Nadia moves. Her breath trembles, sharp and shallow. “Jude,” she whispers. “Stop. Please.”

Her voice cuts through the red haze like a blade through smoke. I look at her. She’s on the floor, back against the wall, one hand pressed to the gash on her lip, eyes wide but not afraid ofme. She’s just… exhausted.

The sight nearly kills me.

I drag Michael by the collar, dead weight now, his head lolling uselessly. I haul him through the doorway and out into the hall. He groans once before my fist drops him back into silence. I fish my phone from my pocket, thumb already hovering over a secure contact.

“I’ve got a pickup,” I say when the line clicks. “Front of Ashmore Apartments. One trash bag.”

I hang up, shove the phone away, and head back inside.

Nadia hasn’t moved. Her knees are drawn up now, her hands trembling against them. The blood on her lip glints in the low light.

“You okay?” I ask. My voice comes out rough, too close to something human.

She blinks at me, confusion clouding her expression. “What are you doing here?”

I hesitate, the truth balancing on the edge of a lie. “I was outside the hospital,” I say finally. “Having a smoke. I saw him following you.”

Her brows draw together. “You followed me?”

“I followedhim,” I lie gently. “There’s a difference.”

She exhales shakily, a mixture of relief and disbelief. “You’re not making much sense.”

“Probably not,” I admit. I look down at my phone again to see a ping confirming Michael’s pickup.

She notices. “Where are you going?”

I glance back at her, the smallest flicker of a sad smile ghosting across my mouth. “To take the trash out.”