Page 24 of Finn
I recognized the unmistakable gleam of silver bullets in the chamber.
They wouldn’t kill me, not like they would a shifter, but they’d hurt like hell.
“Don’t do this,” Finn said, his voice trembling just enough to betray the silent plea beneath it.
“Finn, we need to talk,” I said, raising my hands slowly. “Put the gun down?—”
Before I could finish, he fired. The shot rang out, echoing off the alley walls.
I saw the bullet coming, tracing its trajectory and twisting out of its path just in time.
The shot went wide, and I could see the frustration and hurt flicker in his eyes.
He tried again, the gun cracking in the silence, but he missed once more.
In two quick strides, I closed the distance between us, tearing the gun from his grip and tossing it to the ground.
For a second, I thought he might stop.
I hoped that losing his weapon might remind him that I didn’t want to hurt him. But I’d underestimated him.
With a glint of determination, Finn whipped out a knife, a flash of silver catching the dim alley light.
He was faster than I remembered, his movements sharp and practiced, the product of hours of training.
Finn lunged, and I only had time to dodge, twisting out of the way as he sliced past me.
I countered with a step to the side, but he pivoted, and his blade skimmed dangerously close to my skin.
We moved in a rhythm that felt agonizingly familiar. Dodging, parrying, striking.
It was just like old times in the Guild, our training sessions, but with a deadly edge that hadn’t been there before.
I could see his frustration, the tight lines of determination etched in his face. He was relentless, his movements fierce and focused.
But I couldn’t bring myself to hurt him.
Every time I sensed an opening, I pulled back, easing off instead of pressing forward.
Memories flooded through me: the hours we’d spent sparring.
The way he’d always thrown himself fully into every session. Finn never backed down, even if it meant taking a hit.
And here he was now, not holding back against me. Not even a little.
He swung the knife again, a clean, controlled motion.
I barely evaded it, feeling the sting as the blade skimmed the side of my cheek.
Blood trickled down, but I ignored it, moving in closer until I finally saw my moment.
With a quick twist, I caught his wrist, twisting the knife from his grip and sending it clattering to the ground.
My other hand pressed him against the alley wall, pinning him there with my weight.
His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, his face inches from mine, his eyes a storm of emotions. Anger, hurt, betrayal.
But then something shifted. In his gaze, the anger softened, turning to something that took my breath away.
