Page 64 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

From upstairs, a door creaks open.

“Valentina?” A woman’s voice. Soft. Concerned.

Valentina’s eyes flick toward the stairs for the briefest second before she sucks in a sharp breath androars, “Mom, hide!”

Footsteps retreat. A door slams shut.

She doesn’t hesitate.

She lunges.

I barely twist in time, the knife slicing through the air, missing my side by inches. I grab her wrist, but she pivots, slamming her knee into my ribs again—harder this time. A sharp bolt of pain shoots through me, but I hold on, twisting her arm back. She lets out a strangled gasp, the knife slipping from her fingers.

She tries to break free, but I force her against the table, my grip tightening.

She’s stronger than I gave her credit for. Her body writhes beneath mine like a wild animal, her breath ragged, but she refuses to stop. She twists, slamming the heel of her boot into my shin, the sharp crack of it reverberating through my body.

I grunt, my grip never faltering around her wrist. I push harder, slamming her against the side of the table. The wood groans under the force, and I feel a sharp pain flare in my side—her elbow drove into my ribs when I shifted, the jagged edge of the knife catching my skin.

Blood. Warm and slick, coats my skin, spreading under my clothes. I grit my teeth against the sting, but I don’t let go. My fingers dig into her arm, forcing her down as I feel the heat of my own blood seep through the fabric of my shirt.

She’s fast.

Her knee drives into my thigh this time, and the impact sends a shock wave of pain through my leg. But before I can adjust, I feel the cold bite of metal—the knife—cut across the flesh of my arm.

I don’t register the exact moment it happens. One second, I’m focused on keeping her still, on pushing her back, and then—searingpain erupts in my bicep.

I pull back just in time to avoid her slicing deeper, but the damage is done. Blood drips down my arm, pooling on the floor beneath me. I can feel the pulse of it, each throb like a cruel reminder.

The streetlight flickers outside, its glow passing through the window, casting an eerie shadow across her face.

For the first time, I really look at her, not as an enemy, not as a target, but as a recognition that jolts me in ways I can’t explain.

The way her wild hair tumbles around her face, a messy cascade of waves, is striking. But it’s her eyes—those sharp, piercing eyes—that arrest me. They're green. Just like mine.

And suddenly, I’m not looking at Valentina anymore. I’m looking at her—just likemy mother.

The blonde hair. The wavy strands she used to run her fingers through when she was thinking. The green eyes that always seemed to hide an innate knowledge, something deeper than the anger, than the cruelty she wore like a second skin. Her eyes never wavered, just like Valentina’s do now. They’re filled with the same defiance, the same spark, that terrifyingly familiar fire.

I force my gaze away. I can’t afford this. I can’t afford to feel this, but I can’t help it. Is she…no. I never saw that baby again.

Valentina’s breath is ragged, but she doesn’t stop fighting. She doesn’t give in. She doesn’t know who she is, and she will kill me without knowing she just killed her older brother. I can see it’s in her eyes.

She moves.

In one fluid motion, she reaches down and pulls the knife free. The flash of steel is the only warning I get before the blade drives into my leg, slicing through the fabric of my pants and embedding itself deep into my flesh.

I grunt, pain surging up my body as I stagger back, but I don’t fall. My hand shoots down, gripping the handle of the knife. I rip it out with a sickening yank, blood spilling from the wound as it drips to the floor.

Fury floods me.

I don’t hesitate this time. I’ve had enough.

Before she can react, I step forward, pressing the blade against her neck with brutal force, the cold steel kissing her skin. Her eyes widen, a sharp breath escaping her lips as she goes still.

I press her against me, my chest flush against hers, the tension between us electrifying the air. The blade in my hand, the throb in my leg, the blood that stains my skin—all of it is secondary to the way her pulse races beneath my fingertips.

I tighten my grip on the knife, pressing it harder against her neck, just enough to feel her pulse stutter beneath my fingers. The pain in my leg is nothing compared to the fire in my chest, the rage surging through me. I can feel her breath catch in her throat, each shaky exhale sending a shiver down my spine.

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