Page 137 of Nocturne

He bends to grip my hair harshly to throw me sideways, making me crash into the wall, the frames adorning it crashing down with a thud. He bends, his hands fisting as it meets my temple, knocking my head to the wall again.

“Keep her alive,” I hear the leader droll from somewhere behind.

The broken-nose idiot is so busy landing another punch, using his leg to kick, that he doesn’t notice my hands gripping a broken glass. This time, when he goes to pull my hair so that he can throw me around, I use all my force to stick the glass to the side of his neck. I’ve taken an anatomy course. I know where the carotid artery is.

I see his eyes widening in shock as I go to stand, using his grip on my hair. I twist the broken shard inside his neck, feeling the numbness that comes with this part of my awakening. I push him to the floor and stomp on the glass to embed it deeper into his neck.

When I turn to face the room, it is to see shock on all their faces. Men often mistake us women to be damsels—someone who is incapable of protecting themselves. From that misplaced thought comes a narcissistic need for monsters like them to think that it is their right to hurt us. To use their physicality tooverpower us. I’ve learnt how to use those misplaced thoughts and bigger-headed egos to my gain.

Even now, even after looking at what I’m capable of, the remaining four—apart from the bald man— look at me as if I’m beneath them. They still underestimate me just because I’m a woman. I take in a deep breath, ignoring the pain in my ribs and everywhere else as I gather my hair to pull it together. My face hurts, and I can feel blood streaking from inside my hair, but all my focus is on Yuri and getting him out of there.

Both of our phones are smashed. And if I have any hope of making it out alive, I need my gun. And it is inside the bag that was strewn across the floor. For that, I have to cross them. So be it.

“Breaking her bones might teach the cunt a lesson.” The leader growls before he takes a step forward.

His men follow, but the bald man stays back. As if he has noticed my eyes straying towards the TV room, he situates himself right in front of it. I bend down, both my hands grabbing two broken glass shards, trying to remember the basic self-defence lessons I learnt after the attack in the fighting ring.

I don’t understand why they don’t draw in their guns. Maybe it is for the same reasons as Yuri. I knew he didn’t use a gun because he didn’t want to risk the bullet hitting me. These men want me intact. Even with a few bruises or broken bones, they want me alive.

My eyes fly to the bald guy, and for the first time, I notice the ritual symbol on the side of his neck. I grit my teeth, wanting to skin that part away. It confirms who he is. Why he and all these men are here. Vir sent them.

All of a sudden, all the men, including the bald man, turn their heads. Towards the backdoor, their bodies on high alert. They draw their guns and knives while I try to sneak past them.

I reach Yuri’s legs in three steps. I pull at his ankle, bringing him to my side of the room, being mindful of not breaking the eerie silence. I don’t care why they turned. I need to check the damage on the man who tried to protect me. I need to see…I need to…I cannot even bring myself to finish the thought.

And suddenly, the backdoor opens with a thud, startling me to a jump. Two figures head inside my home. The darkness shrouds them both as one of them stands guard of the door while the other, the lither one, moves forward.

I hear the sound of footsteps—quick, light, like they're moving with purpose. But it's too dark to make out anything, and I can only guess at what's coming next.

“Don’t fucking shoot. I don’t want people calling the police!” The leader orders.

His men follow, pushing away their guns.

The leader, a thick-set bastard with a knife in his hand, takes a step toward the kitchen, ready to grab another weapon. But before his foot even hits the floor, something moves too fast for my spectacle-less eyes to follow. It's a blur, a shadow. He’s disarmed in an instant; the knife is snatched from his hand as though it is nothing. He barely has time to react before he’s shoved into the counter with a crash that rattles the walls.

The others freeze, but only for a second. Then they rush forward, their eyes filled with aggression, convinced they’ve got the upper hand. But whoever the hell just entered the room, they’re a storm. A force. I can hear the movements, fast and clean butlethal. One man swings a discarded wood. The stranger is there, gone, and then they’re behind him, their elbow driving into his throat with a sound that makes me wince. He drops like a sack of bricks, gasping for air.

Whoever they are, they are moving in the shadows, as if they are well versed in this game of hide and seek.

Another swings a knife, but it’s a wasted effort. The stranger is already ducking, moving with an impressive fluidity. There’s no hesitation, no wasted motion. They’re on him, their legs sweeping him off his feet with ease, and he crumples to the floor, barely making a sound.

I can barely see any of it. It’s all shadows and flashes of movement, but the chaos is real. Another man tries to grab a gun in final desperation, but the stranger beats him to it.

“No guns, fucker.” I hear the distinctive voice of a female.

The gun’s in her hand before he can even aim it, and then she’s driving her fist into his temple. I hear it—the sickening crack of bone—and he slumps to the ground, unconscious before he even hits the floor.

And then it’s just one man left—the bald one. The one who’s still standing, glaring at the darkness, calculating.

The bald man charges, fists raised, but I know this is different. He’s strong, built like a tank, but whoever’s fighting him, she’s better. And faster. I hear the movement again, and then she’s on him, close enough that he’s too late to land a punch. There’s a grunt, a sound of impact, but it’s not him hitting her. She’s the one in control, shifting and twisting, like she’s in the air, and he’s stuck on the ground. I hear the sound of bones crunching—his ribs, maybe—and he staggers back, growling in pain.

He doesn’t stop. The bald man throws another wild punch, but it’s like he’s fighting the wind. She’s not there, not anymore. And then—bam. She’s right back in his space, a low, devastating blow to his ribs, and I hear him gasp. His breath catches, and I know he’s hurt badly. But he’s not done.

He roars and comes at her again, but she’s just... faster. His hands swipe at the air where she was a second ago, but she’s already somewhere else, twisting, turning, anticipating every move. I can’t see what she’s doing, but I can hear it. Her feet tapping the floor with deadly precision, like a cat pouncing on prey.

I hear him shout, but it’s all anger, all rage now. He’s throwing everything he has, but she’s out of his reach. I can feel it, the tension in the air. She’s toying with him, pulling him apart piece by piece. And then, like a snake striking, her knee drives into his chest. I hear the sickeningthud, and I know he’s hurt—reallyhurt. But he’s not done.

He tries again, slashing out with his fists, but it’s too wild, too sloppy. She steps in—too quick, too quiet—and when she moves, it’s like the world stands still for a moment. Her grip tightens around his wrist, and I hear thesnap—a bone breaking, or maybe a joint dislocating. He howls in pain, but there’s no mercy in the stranger’s movements.

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