Page 79 of Twisted Fate

I twist violently, throwing every bit of weight I have into it. It’s not much, but fear is a powerful motivator. A person facing death can do things they never imagined. I manage to throw his balance off enough to roll us both, getting a split second on top of him before he flips us again, pinning me down. For a moment, while I’m on top of him, I see a flash of heat in his eyes, feel that still-hard ridge beneath me. This is turning him on, too, his body struggling between rage and desire.

But I can’t use that to my advantage any longer. He might want me, might still be throbbing with need for me, but it won’t overtake him. He’s too smart, too in control for that.

Before he manages to pin both of my arms again, I strike out with my free hand, curling my fingers into a fist as I land a blow to his temple. He flinches, but doesn’t loosen his grip, strikingout with his elbow hard enough to make my arm go temporarily numb, although I manage to keep my grip on the knife.

"Stop fighting me," he commands, his voice strained. Not from effort, though, I think. It’s something else, something deeper that’s making this hard for him. "You can't win this."

That sparks a jolt of much-needed anger in me. "Watch me," I spit back, bringing my knee up between us, creating just enough space to wrench my arm. The knife slices through air, cutting through the fabric of his shirt, grazing his side. He hisses in pain, momentarily loosening his grip. I seize the opportunity, twisting my body violently and breaking free.

I scramble away, knife clutched in my hand, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Konstantin rises to his feet, a hand pressed to his bleeding side, his eyes never leaving mine. The cut is shallow, but a streak of red has soaked through the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m done playing games,” he growls, his voice deadly calm. “Five attempts on my life, now,Sophia. So see if you can do it.” His eyes narrow in on mine, and I wonder if he’d really let me. I doubt it.

He’s testing me. But he doesn’t know how well-trained I am. How committed I am to getting that carrot that Kane has dangled in front of me all these years.

I push myself to my feet, knife extended between us. I feel as if everything inside of me is trembling, but my hand is steady on the knife, as if all those skills I’ve learned are at the wheel, driving this interaction. Not me. Not the part of me that is bleeding out at the thought of killing this man.

I keep the blade pointed at him, backing away until I feel the edge of the counter behind me. I could tell him everything, now. I could tell him the truth, and then finish this. But I can’t bear to say it aloud. To admit that it was always the plan, from the beginning, to end him.

That everything was a lie.

Not everything,a small voice in the back of my head whispers.Not all of it.

“Do it,” Konstantin challenges. “Finish what you started.”

He takes another step forward, and I tighten my grip on the knife. The weight of it feels strange in my hand—heavier than it should be, as if the blade itself is resisting what I'm about to do. His expression is hard and fearless as he closes the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps. My back presses harder against the counter’s edge, as if every part of me is resisting this final moment between us.

He looks at me as if he knows something I don’t. As if he’s privy to some inner part of me that I’m unaware of, as he advances on me, close enough that the tip of the knife presses against his chest.

"You must have been planning this from the start,” he murmurs, his voice full of that same knowing sound, as if he’s in on a secret that I’m not a part of. “So why hesitate,volchitsa?”

I stare into his eyes—those eyes that once looked at me with such tenderness, now dark with anger, with betrayal, with some other emotion that I can’t begin to name. My hand trembles violently. The knife tip creates a small tear in his shirt, directly over his heart. One quick thrust is all it would take.

But I can't move my arm.

In an instant, Konstantin lunges forward, his hand closing around my wrist with brutal force. He twists sharply, and pain explodes up my arm. The knife clatters to the floor. Before I can react, he's swept my legs out from under me, sending us both crashing down. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs.

His weight pins me to the floor, one hand gripping both my wrists above my head, the other retrieving the knife. I thrash beneath him, wild with the instinct to survive, but he's too strong, too heavy. Every part of my body is reacting to theinstinctive feeling that this is the end. That this is the moment that Konstantin kills me… or worse.

"Who are you?" he demands again, pressing the flat of the blade against my throat.

I go still, feeling the cold metal against my skin. His eyes burn into mine, searching for something—truth, perhaps, or a glimpse of the woman he thought he knew.

And there’s one truth that I can’t stop myself from whispering, from releasing into the air like I can’t bear to die without him knowing.

Like I’d give anything to hear him say it just once, even if it’s the moment before he kills me.

"Valentina," I whisper, my real name escaping me like a surrender, my voice cracking.

Konstantin's eyes widen, the pressure of the knife against my throat faltering for just a moment. It's enough. I bring my knee up hard, catching him in the stomach. He grunts, losing his balance, and I use the momentum to roll us, wrestling for control of the knife again.

We crash into the base of the couch, the knife between us, both our hands wrapped around the handle. His strength is overwhelming, his fingers crushing mine as he wrenches the blade away. Before I can recover, he's on top of me again, knees pinning my thighs, my wrists pinned again while his hand presses the knife against my throat.

"Valentina," he repeats, testing the name on his tongue. A shudder ripples down my spine at the sound of my name in his voice. I feel burning at the backs of my eyes—not tears, surely. At this moment, of all moments, I’m not going to cry.

Butgod, my name sounds so good on his lips, even when his voice is cold as ice. A tremor runs through me, hot and needy, at the thought of him saying it differently. Whispering it heatedlyas his hands run over my skin. Groaning it as he comes inside of me.

His eyes bore into mine, searching, and I can see the conflict there. The cold, ruthless, brutal Bratva heir, hesitating as he tastes my name on his tongue. The blade trembles against my skin. I stare up at him defiantly, knowing as my body aches from a dozen bruises that I’m not going to win this fight, waiting for the killing stroke.

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