Baring her teeth, she drew a gun from the waistband at the small of her back, said, “Bitch.”

Lila ran, choking out a scream when she heard the slap of a bullet hit the wall. She flew into the bedroom, slammed the door, fumbled with the lock.

Call the police, she ordered herself, then clearly saw her phone sitting beside her keyboard in the little bedroom.

No way to call for help. She bolted toward the window, wasted time trying to shove it open before remembering the lock, and heard the solid kick hit the door.

She needed a weapon.

She grabbed her purse, dumped everything out, pawed through it.

“Think, think, think!” she chanted as she heard wood splinter.

She grabbed the can of pepper spray, sent by her mother a year before and never used. Prayed it worked. She closed her fist around her Leatherman—a solid weight in her fist. Hearing the door give, she ran, put her back to the wall beside it.

Be strong, be smart, be fast, she told herself, repeating it over and over like a mantra as the door crashed open. Biting back a fresh scream as a swath of bullets swept through the doorway.

She held her breath, shifted and aimed for the eyes as Jai stepped in. The scream ripped like a scalpel. Thinking only of escape, Lila punched out with her weighted hand, glanced a blow off Jai’s shoulder, followed it with a shove. With Jai firing blindly, Lila ran.

Get down, get out.

She was nearly halfway down when she heard running footsteps. She glanced back, braced for a bullet, saw the blur of Jai leaping.

The force knocked her off her feet, stole even the thought of breath. As the world spun, pain shot into her shoulder, her hip, her head as they fell down the steps, rolling like dice from a shaken cup.

She tasted blood, watched streaks of light spear across her vision. She kicked weakly, tried to crawl as nausea churned up from belly to throat. Her own scream tore free as hands dragged her back. Pulling on her strength, she kicked again, felt the blow land. She gained her hands and knees, sucked in a breath to shove to her feet, and tumbled back, the streaks bursting into stars when the fist caught the side of her jaw.

Then Jai was on her, a hand clamped around her throat.

No beauty now. Eyes red, leaking, face splotched, bruised, bloodied. But the hand cutting off Lila’s air weighed like iron.

“Do you know how many I’ve killed? You’re nothing. You’re just the next. And when your man comes back, biao zi, I’ll gut him and watch him bleed out. You’re nothing, and I’ll make you less.”

No breath, a red mist crawling over her eyes.

She saw Ash at his easel, saw him eating waffles, laughing into her eyes at a sun-washed café.

She saw him—them—traveling together, being home together, living their lives together.

The future in her hands.

Ash. She’d kill Ash.

Adrenaline surged, an electric jolt. She bucked, but the grip on her throat only tightened. She struck out, saw Jai’s lips peel back in a terrible smile.

Weight in her hand, she realized. She still had the tool; she hadn’t dropped the tool. Frantic, she fought to open it one-handed.

“Egg.” She croaked it out.

“You think I care about the f**king egg?”

“Here. Egg. Here.”

The vicious grip loosened a fraction. Air seared Lila’s throat as she gulped it in.

“Where?”

“I’ll give it to you. To you. Please.”

“Tell me where it is.”

“Please.”

“Tell me or die.”

“In . . .” She garbled the rest on a fit of coughing that had tears streaming down her cheeks.

Jai slapped her. “Where. Is. The. Egg,” she demanded, slapping Lila between each word.

“In the . . .” she whispered, hoarse, breathless. And Jai leaned closer.

In her head, she screamed, but her abused throat only released a screeching wheeze as she plunged the knife into Jai’s cheek. Weight shifted off her chest, for just an instant. She bucked, kicked, stabbed out again. Pain radiated down her arm as Jai twisted her wrist, pulled the knife from her.

“My face! My face! I’m going to carve you up.”

Spent, defeated, Lila prepared to die.

Ash carried Chinese takeout, a small bakery box and a bouquet of gerbera daisies bright as candy.

They’d make her smile.

He imagined them opening a bottle of wine, sharing the meal, sharing the bed. Keeping each other distracted until the call finally came, and they knew it was over, it was finished.

Then they’d get on with the business of their lives.

He thought of her reaction to his proposal by the side of the road. He hadn’t meant to ask her then and there, but it had been the moment for him. The way she’d looked, the way she was—the way they’d read each other’s every cue during the charade with Vasin.

What they had together was a rare thing. He knew it. Now he had to make her believe it.

They could travel wherever she wanted as long as she wanted. The where didn’t matter to him. They could use the loft as a base until she was ready to put down roots.

And she would be, he thought, once she really believed, once she trusted what they had together.

As far as he was concerned, they had all the time in the world.

He shifted bags to pull out his keys as he started up the steps.

He noticed that the lights on the alarm, on the camera he’d had installed, were off. They’d been on, hadn’t they, when he left? Had he checked?

The hairs on the back of his neck rose when he saw the scratches on the locks, the slight gap in the way the door fit.

He’d already dropped the bags when he heard the scream.

He charged the door. It creaked, groaned, but held. Rearing back, he threw his body, his rage against it.

It crashed open, showed him his worst nightmare.

He didn’t know if she was dead or alive, all he saw was the blood—her blood, her limp body and glassy eyes. And Maddok straddling her, the knife poised to strike.

Fury snapped through him, a lightning charge that boiled the blood, burned the bones. He rushed her, never slowing as she sprang up, never feeling the bite of the knife as she sliced it down.

He simply picked her up bodily, heaved her aside. He stood between her and Lila, not daring to look down, bracing instead to attack, to defend.

She didn’t spring to her feet this time but heaved herself up to a crouch from the rubble of what had been his grandmother’s Pembroke table. Blood ran down her cheek in a river, leaked out of her nose. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if that’s why she wept. Her eyes were red, swollen, running with tears.