Page 154 of Vendetta Crown

Before I can regain my bearings, his weight crashes down on me. He's heavier than I remember, and the pressure on my pregnant belly makes panic surge through me.

My babies!

"Get off me!" I twist beneath him, trying to protect my belly.

His hands find my throat, cutting off my words. His fingers dig into my windpipe with practiced precision.

"Why did you run from me?" His face hovers inches above mine, spittle flying from his lips. "Why?!"

I gasp for air that won't come.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" he screams, slamming my head against the floor. "Seven years, Jamie. Seven fucking years!"

Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as he squeezes harder.

"I did everything for you! I killed for you! I loved you! I still love you!" he pants, his expression softening grotesquely. "Why won't you accept that? Why do you insist on pushing me away!"

My uninjured hand tightens around the knife I grabbed moments ago.

The same one that Kristofer planned on using to cut my babies out of me.

My vision blurs, dark spots growing larger as his fingers crush my windpipe. The faces of my family flash before me—Mom, Dad, my little brother—their blood-soaked bodies sprawled across our living room floor.

Then other faces appear: Ruslan, Hannah, Mikayla, Sofia, and Stella.

My family now.

And then the imagined faces of my babies. Little Andrei with Ruslan's golden eyes, and Nadia with my hazel ones.

I can't lose them.

Not now.

Not ever.

With one final surge of desperate strength, I swing my arm in a wide arc and plunge the blade deep into Kristofer's neck.

His eyes widen in shock. His grip loosens instantly as blood spurts from the wound, hot and sticky across my face and chest.

I gasp, sweet air rushing into my burning lungs. The relief is momentary. But I don't stop.

I yank the knife free and stab again.

Harder.

Deeper.

"Look what you made me do," I snarl, my voice raw and unrecognizable.

Kristofer gurgles, hands clutching feebly at his throat. The man who haunted my nightmares for seven years suddenly seems small and pathetic.

I don't stop. I stab again. And again. And again.

"Look what you made me do!"

Blood soaks everything—my hands, my face, my clothes. It pools beneath us on the theater floor.

His weight starts to slump against me, but I keep going, each thrust of the knife releasing seven years of terror, seven years of running, seven years of looking over my shoulder.

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