Page 5 of Scarred Angel

The thought barely forms before both bodies move. Pyotr reaches into his waistband, and the woman’s sword arcs through the air. A gunshot cracks, followed by a dull thud, and a clattering of something heavy hitting concrete.

It takes a full heartbeat before I understand what I’m seeing. Blood patters onto the concrete, spreading fast as Pyotr’s severed hand lies a few feet away, curled like it’s still trying to hold the weapon.

“You…crazy?—”

The word never makes it out. Metal sings through the air and opens his throat in a single, perfect line. My breath catches, and I’m frozen. I can only watch as the man I’ve hated, the one I’ve dreamed of killing for so long, stumbles toward death without me lifting a finger.

He slumps to his knees, then folds back, his body collapsing at the wrong angle. The woman stands over him, eyebrow arched like she’s checking out her handiwork.

“Don’tevercall me crazy.”

Blood bubbles in his mouth as he tries to speak, but she drives the sword into his neck, then deeper until the gurgling stops.

I was wrong. Sheisa lunatic with a blade. I haul myself up, every muscle screaming, and her eyes snap to me.

Shit.

Swallowing the pain, I limp as fast as I can manage.

“Wait. Stop.” She takes off after me.

As I move faster, pain flares, my limp becomes heavier, and my throat suddenly burns with a different kind of ache. Tears rush forward, distorting my vision, and I trip on uneven pavement.

“No…no, please,” I beg, dragging myself now. Always fucking begging like the dog he always said I was.

Sobs seize my chest until I can’t breathe, and I curl in on myself, shaking. “Just…Just do it. Do it fast.” My voice splinters.

“Hey.” The sound is softer than I expect, almost gentle. Not the cold tone she used with Pyotr “I’m not going to hurt you.” She lays the sword on the ground and reaches for my shoulder. “But I need to know you’re okay. You’re bleeding…everywhere.” She brushes wet hair from my face. Still careful. No one has ever been that way with me in a long time…maybe ever. “You’re soaking wet, shaking. God…he did this to you?”

My cries slow, and I lift my head to look at her. Trust is a feeling I’ve forgotten. And despite having just murdered a man, something about this woman makes me feel…safe.

“I…jumped. Off the bridge.”

Her brown eyes widen. “South Street Bridge?”

I nod, blinking hard to clear my eyes. “I-I had to. He said he was going to…sell me.”

Her gaze shifts toward Pyotr’s body, the look in her eyes turning dark. But when she looks back at me, the sharpness quickly fades.

“Was he your father?”

I shake my head. “My family’s dead. All of them.”

Her expression softens. She reaches out, wiping a smear of blood from my cheek with her thumb. Her eyes are kind, like she’s seeing me and not the mess of blood, grime, split skin, and bruises. For a second, I expect her to pull away, but she doesn’t.

I try to hide my face again, but she tenderly tips my chin.

“Mine too.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. It’s useless and hollow, but it’s what comes out. “It sucks…to be alone.”

“It did, for a while,” she answers softly. “But I’m not anymore. Family isn’t always who you’re born to. It’s who shows up, the ones who stay, and the kind of people you can count on—even on your worst days.”

A strange warmth spreads in my chest. I can’t imagine what it’s like to belong to a family like the one she described. Even when my parents were alive, some days I felt like a burden, like my only purpose was to be the man my father wanted.

A dog to be trained.

“I’m Helena.” She pauses and smiles again. “Leni. What’s your name?” she asks, tearing a leather strap from her thigh and tying it carefully around my arm as a tourniquet.