Page 112 of The Final Contract
I put her behind me, her small hand pressing my knife into my palm.
Good girl.
“Look for a way out, baby.” My voice is rough, smoke-burned. I don’t take my eyes off Cormac.
He peels off what’s left of his singed shirt, tosses it into the fire like a challenge. His chest heaves, blackened skin blistering, but his grin is all venom. Each breath burns deeper, smoke turning our lungs to ash. Seraphina coughs behind me, and I hear her stumbling through rubble. She’s weak from blood loss, weaker from the smoke. Time’s running out.
If it comes to it, I’ll sleep easy with her in my arms—so long as my brother rots here in the ashes.
He rips a burning beam from the floor and flings it at me. It sails wide, sparks raining, but I’m already moving. He charges, and I catch him by the throat and the waistband, twist with his momentum, and drive him face-first into the wall. Stone cracks with the impact.
I knee him in the gut. His breath bursts out ragged. My boot slams into his ribs and he staggers, but I don’t give him room. My hand fists in his hair and I slam his face into stone again, pulling him back to see the ruin I’ve made of him—blood streaming, teeth broken, eyes wild.
I grip the knife, knuckles white, and my fist crashes into his face once. Twice.
His body goes slack, dead weight in my hold, but I don’t stop.
Again. Again. Again. My knuckles split, blood slicking the blade’s handle, but I keep going.
“This is for every drop of blood you spilled.”
Crack.
“For every woman you hurt, every soul you ruined.”
Crack.
“For our mother.”
Crack.
“And this—” my fist drives down one last time, his face unrecognizable now, “—this is for touching my angel.”
I feel the moment bones give way—shatter under my strikes. The second shards drive into his brain. The wet gurgle in his throat is the only sound left before he goes still.
I spit beside his body, chest heaving, knuckles raw and dripping.
Cormac. My brother. My curse.
Dead at last.
The fire’s a living thing now—gnawing, clawing, roaring as it devours what’s left of the church. My chest heaves, lungs ripping raw with every breath, but all I can think about is her.
She’s in the corner, slumped against stone, her face pale and streaked with soot, eyes half-lidded. Blood runs down her thigh, soaking the strip of cloth I tied, and each cough wracks her whole body.
I can’t let it end like this. Not with her. Not here.
I grab a beam splintered from the collapse, thick and heavy, and stagger to the wall. I swing it hard—smashing stone, wood, anything that might give. Again. Again. My muscles scream, arms shaking, but the wall doesn’t yield. Each strike steals more of my strength until my knees threaten to give.
Behind me, she chokes—a ragged cough—and when I turn she’s sliding down the wall, her body folding in on itself.
“Angel—” I drop the beam, scrambling to her. Her skin’s cold under the soot, her body trembling against mine.
Her lips part, voice breaking. “I tried…”
My throat closes, but I force the words out—rough and raw. “You did more than try.”
Her hand trembles as it lifts, brushing weakly against my cheek. Her lips barely move, the whisper fragile, fading. “Go…”
