Page 87 of House Rules
I don’t stop. I smile.
It’s too late to stop. The darkness creeps in around my vision, and all I can see is this ugly man with a bad mustache and his fat fucking friend and their hands on my angel.
He thinks the gun is power. He has no idea what power is.
My blade is already warm in my hand, my fingers molded to the hilt like it was made for this moment. My heart pounds once—then slows. I’m in it now. This is the place where nothing else matters. Notthe crowd. Not the cameras. Not the Titans. Just the blood and the blade and the slow, burning thrill of release.
He pulls the hammer back.
“I’m warning you?—”
He is pathetic, not worthy of the air he breathes, let alone of touching my angel. I take several more steps towards him. I’m almost in front of him. He is still shaking, the astringent smell of piss filling the air. I could easily reach out and take the gun, but where’s the fun in that?
“I don’t care.”
The shot cracks off, wild and stupid, slamming into brick above my shoulder.
His mistake. His only one.
And his last.
I lunge.
One slice and his elbow tendon gives. The revolver hits the pavement with a dull clatter, fingers no longer working. He screams like a kicked dog.
The fat one panics and grabs Phoenix, yanking her backward by the arm. She kicks. Fights. Tries to twist free.
He raises his hand to strike her again.
I’m already moving.
The knife flashes once—shoulder to chest. A red line blooms across his shirt. He bellows, clutching himself, but I sidestep cleanly. He’s clumsy. Slow. An insult to the fight.
He stumbles back, crashing into his friend. The two of them fall in a heap like a bad joke, and I laugh.
I give them a second. Maybe two. Let them try again. It's only fair.
The tall one still has the gun, fumbling it into his left hand—he’s not left-handed. It shows. I slash at the fat one again, using his bulk to shove the shot wide. The bullet pings off brick. Far from Phoenix.
I check on her. She’s crouched behind the dumpster, tucked low, watching with wide eyes. Smart girl. Good girl. She’s learning. She knows what I need now.
Room to play.
“If you don’t fuck off, I swear to God I’ll—” the fat one starts, voice cracking.
“You’ll what?” I ask, spinning the knife lazily between my fingers. My grin stretches slow and sharp.
“I’ll kill the girl,” the tall one chokes out, gun pointed at her again.
Wrong move.
I flick the blade. Hard. It sinks into his shoulder like it was meant to live there.
He drops the gun and screams. Can’t even lift his other arm to pull the blade out.
“Let me help you with that,” I murmur.
Four steps. Maybe five. That’s all it takes.
