Page 4 of Scarred Angel

My eyes snap open. That voice.

No.

Pyotr steps out of the shadows, his silver teeth flashing under the blinking light. I stumble back on weak legs and hit the ground hard. He doesn’t rush to me because he enjoys watching me squirm and fall apart.

Flicking open a silver pocketknife, he crouches in front of me and grins.

“I don’t know if you’re the luckiest or unluckiest bastard alive,” he says with a low laugh. “Either way, you owe me. Daniil was one of my best men. Now his brain’s smeared across my leather seats.”

He extends a hand. “Give me yours.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

His laugh turns mean. “We’ll see which one of us is fucked.”

I try to crawl backward, spine scraping against the cold pole as he brings the blade to my throat.

Then it happens—a harsh screech of metal against concrete, sparks spitting out into the dark.

Pyotr stops mid-breath.

I peek around his shoulder just as the shadowed figure steps into the light. It’s a woman, dragging a katana across the ground.Her gaze drops to the knife in Pyotr’s hand, then climbs back to his face as a slow, amused smile curls her lips.

“Cute,” she says, voice dripping with mock sweetness. She tilts the sword, letting the edge catch the weak glow of the streetlamp. “But if we’re comparing blade sizes, you’re a little out of your league.”

His jaw flexes, and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t laugh.

The woman’s eyes shift to me, and her smile fades. There’s something about her. She’s not just some lunatic with a weapon. Nobody walks the streets at night carrying a sword unless they know exactly how and when to use it.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” Pyotr straightens, stepping back just enough to create space between them. He tries to play it cool, his voice thick with fake charm, but I know him well. I see the stiffness in his shoulders, the twitch in his jaw. He suspects the same thing I do.

This isn’t some lost girl. She’s a predator. And she looks dangerous.

Her smile returns, sharper this time, and she twirls the sword once, like it weighs nothing.

“Lost?” she echoes, tilting her head. “No. I know exactly where I am. The better question is…are you?”

There goes that laugh of his, one meant to remind everyone who’s in charge.

He slides a hand into his coat pocket, tugging it wide so she can see the gun’s handle. Her gaze flicks down for half a heartbeat, then back up, unbothered and unimpressed.

If anything, the corner of her mouth tips higher.

“Just out here for an evening walk with my son,” he says. “Any particular reason you’re carrying that around? You even know how to use one of those?”

She taps the flat of the blade against her thigh. “This thing? Oh, I picked it up on a little trip. Cool, right? I wasn’t planningon it, but the second I saw it…” Her grin widens. “I knew I just had to get my hands on it.”

“That’s…quite the souvenir.”

She shrugs, never breaking eye contact. “What can I say? I always get what I want.”

The street goes quiet. Just the buzz of the dying lamp above us and the weight of the moment between them. No more banter. No more disguises. It’s as if both of them know exactly what happens next. The pleasantries are over, and blood is inevitable.

I scoot back, away from the pole, ready to bolt the second things go south. Because once she’s done with him, I know where that blade’s turning. And I don’t have an ounce of fight left in me.

But what if…

No. She’s not here to save you. No one ever is. Remember that.