Page 144 of Ruin My Life

Technique, however,is.

Monroe’s voice hisses in my head, sharp and rhythmic, like a drill sergeant:

Keep your thumbs out when you punch.

Aim for sensitive targets—eyes, throat, kidneys.

Don’t block. Evade

Keep your guard up.

And if you hit the ground, get the fuck back up.

I drive my fist into his side—just under the ribs, where muscle gives way to gut.

He grunts. His grip loosens for a beat, and I slam my elbow into his throat. Not hard enough to crush it—just enough to rattle him.

I don’t get away clean. His fist comes across my face hard, and I taste blood the moment my head snaps sideways. I drop to one knee, my cheek burning from the hit as my vision swims.

But I’m not down. Not for long.

He lunges for the gun, his fingers outstretched like desperate claws, but I sweep his legs from under him.

He hits the ground hard—tailbone first—and I hear a loudcrack.

The sound that comes out of him is part cough, part scream. The gun skitters across the floor, metal screaming on bare concrete.

Before he can recover, I throw myself to the ground in a dive.

My fingers close around the grip.

I roll, lift—

He’s scrambling to get up.

I shoot.

BANG!

The bullet tears through his calf with a wet, meatysnap.

Alexander screams, thrashing as blood spurts from the wound in pulsing arcs. But even then, he doesn’t stop crawling.

Persistent little bastard.

I rise to my feet as my vision finally starts clearing, my pulse a silent roar in my ears. I move toward him—slowly, deliberately—raising the gun until it’s level with his skull.

When I reach him, I press my boot to his chest and shove. He flips onto his back, gasping. His icy blue eyes snap to mine—and widen.

That’s when I see it hit him.

Recognition—sharp and sudden, like a light switching on in a pitch black room.

And then—hesmiles.

“Took you long enough,Black Rose,” he drawls, voice thick with both pain and mockery.

My boot shifts, pressing hard into his ribs. There’s acrunchbeneath my foot. A few of them.