Page 86

CHARLOTTE

T he old cabin, set behind Conan’s, creaks as the wind cuts through the trees. Weapons line the walls: blades, axes, even a row of throwing stars. It’s a playground for killers. I’m impressed.

I can’t help myself but pick up the first knife that speaks to me. My eyes fix on the target and I throw. The blade sings through the air and buries itself deep in the center of the post with a sharp, satisfying thunk. My heart’s not pounding, it’s steady.

Here I am free again.

Declan’s behind me, close enough I can feel the weight of his stare between my shoulder blades. I don’t need to turn around to know he’s watching every twitch of muscle, every breath I take.

“Looking good, heartbreaker.”

I grab another knife from the table, heavier than the last. I like the way it settles in my palm, like it belongs there.

“I’m not here to play,” I snap, testing the balance before lifting my gaze to the target. “This isn’t for show. I need to be ready. For him. For her.”

Declan steps closer.

“You’re ready, you know you are,” he says, but there’s a catch in his voice. Like he doesn’t quite believe it. Like he’s trying to convince himself, too.

I whip the knife through the air, harder this time. It slams into the wood, right beside the first. Not perfect, but deadly enough.

“Not ready,” I hiss. “Not yet.”

His hand brushes mine, like he’s trying to ground me. I yank away. I don’t want grounding. I want fire. I want rage.

“Don’t,” I say, spinning to face him. “This isn’t a fucking therapy session.”

His jaw tics. “And what is it, then?”

“It’s war.”

He doesn’t flinch as I snatch another blade and throw it with enough force to rattle the post. This time, I don’t look away from him.

“That one was for Vlad.”

His eyes darken.

“And this one?” he asks.

I grab a fourth and press the tip to my palm, feeling the sharp kiss of metal, just enough to sting.

“This one’s for me,” I whisper. “For every time I flinched. Every time I begged. Every time I stayed quiet while he broke me.”

I hurl it with everything I’ve got. It slams dead center, splitting the wood slightly.

Declan’s breathing hard now. Matching mine. There’s no air between us, just heat and tension and the throb of something violent.

He reaches for my waist.

“This time will be different. You’re not the same woman who escaped before, are you?” he murmurs.

“No,” I say, eyes locked on the knives. “I’m the one who’s going to make him bleed. I’m angrier now than I ever have been.”

I feel his fingers slide up my side. “Show me. Teach me how to throw like that.”

I smile and pick up a blade and press the hilt into his hand.

“I’ll show you,” I whisper, stepping in until we’re chest to chest. “But you better keep up, soldier. I don’t train soft.”

His grip tightens on the knife.

“Good. Because I don’t want soft. I only like it hard.” He winks, and my stomach flips.

I guide his hand, pressing the blade against my thigh, not hard, but enough to feel it.

“Then don’t flinch,” I say, my voice dripping with challenge. “Because if you do, I win.”