Page 198 of Teacher's Pet

"Look at you."

I freeze. My breath catches.

The voice is smooth, laced with amusement, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it.

Stepping out from behind a tree, Cole emerges, eyes dark, unreadable. The blade in his hand gleams under the thin moonlight.

Fuck.

"Looks like Jake really did a number on her," another voice muses from behind me.

Walker.

I turn my head slightly, enough to see him. He stands with an easy stance, a small pistol resting comfortably in his grip. Not nervous. Not rushed. Both men are calm, confident. Armed.

I am bleeding. Weaponless. Barely standing.

Cole’s eyes flick around the clearing, scanning. "Where’s Jake?"

I force my shoulders to relax, my lips curling into a tired smile. "H-hopefully dead." My voice wavers, but I push through. "Maybe you can join him."

My fingers twitch, hovering near the hilt of the knife still buried in my thigh. Every pulse of pain is a reminder. It’s my only weapon. My only chance.

Cole smirks, but Walker steps in closer, gun angled lazily in my direction. "Now, now, Anastasia," he murmurs. "No need for such cruel talk before your final moments."

I exhale shakily, letting my body sag, throwing on my best look of defeat. My fingers curl tighter around the knife’s handle.

Let’s hope this tourniquet holds.

Walker sighs, shaking his head. "You know, I really did like you at one point. Could've fucked you real nice if you’d let me."

I swallow the revulsion curling in my gut. My eyes flick to his. Calculating. Measuring the distance.

"You know what the problem was with our night together, Walker?" I whisper, watching him take the bait, stepping closer.

Close enough to touch.

His lips twist into a smirk. "What’s that?"

"You fucked up my throat," I sneer. "Seems only fair I return the favor."

Confusion flashes across his face, but it’s already too late.

I strike.

My hand slams into his wrist, forcing the gun downward. Pain erupts as I rip the knife from my leg, my scream raw, vicious. Before Walker can react, I drive the blade forward, slashing deep across his throat.

His eyes go wide.

The gurgle comes next. Wet. Gasping. His hands fly to his neck, but it’s useless. Blood spills through his fingers, hot and dark. His knees buckle. The gun drops.

He crumples.

His body jerks, convulsing, before he slumps forward into the snow, his blood staining the earth beneath him.

I turn, just in time to see Cole lunge.

Falling, I slip on the bloodied ground, barely dodging the knife meant for my back. I scramble, reaching for the gun, but Cole is faster—he kicks it away.

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