Page 109 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
Isabel’s throat tightened as she forced herself to look at him, not through him or past him like she wanted.
Right. At. Him.
Her fingernails bit into her palms, holding back every memory of his knife tracing her skin, his voice whispering all those vile promises. Paris felt like another lifetime.
Another woman with her name and face, but not her strength.
“Not a pet,” she said. “Not yours. Not anymore.”
The knife was warm in her palm. She raised it slowly, deliberately, so he’d understand what was coming for him.
Favreau’s lips twitched. The bastard was enjoying this.
“And what exactly do you think you’re going to do with that little knife,ma chérie?” His voice dripped with condescension. “There are twenty men in this building who would cut you down without blinking if I gave the order.”
“Two of them are already dead. That leaves eighteen.”
He laughed. “Oh, Isabel. The only way this ends is with you kneeling at my feet as you were meant to be. You’re mine.”
Something snapped inside her.
She launched herself at Favreau, knife slashing. His dodge wasn’t quick enough. The blade caught his cheek, opening a shallow cut.
Favreau’s fingers rose to dab at the wound, his eyes lit up with a perverse sort of glee. “There she is. My feral girl. Vicious and cruel and hungry.”
“I was hungry because you starved me.” Memories flashed – days spent huddled during his punishments, her stomach cramping with hunger, waiting for the scraps he threw her way. “I was cruel because it’s all you taught me.”
“And you took to my lessons beautifully once I owned you.”
She lunged. The knife slashed across Favreau’s chest, tearing through his shirt. He grunted in surprise and stumbled. She’d never managed to catch him off guard before.
“You can collar me,” she snarled, “but you’ll neverownme.”
Isabel didn’t give him time to recover. She drove him back, each strike calculated. She didn’t need to kill him yet – just hurt him. Mark him. Every slice was for a different memory: the broken wrist when she hadn’t stolen something fast enough, the cigarette burns when she’d refused to smile, the nights he’d watched her sleep.
And Favreau waslaughing.
Goading her, taunting her, his words lost in the roar of blood in her ears. But Isabel was beyond hearing. There was only the savage song humming in her veins. The violence. The promise of retribution.
Favreau’s shoulders hit the wall, and the blade slipped beneath his ribs. Not deep enough to kill him, not yet, but enough to make him feel it. Let him experience the agony she had. Let himdrownin it.
“Remember when you did this to me?” she whispered, twisting the knife until he gasped. “You said pain was the best teacher.”
“I remember everything, my Isabel. You’re magnificent.”
“Shut up.” She pressed the knife harder.
His hand shot out, catching her wrist and yanking her. They crashed into the bedside table. A lamp smashed to the floor. Favreau used his weight to force her back onto the mattress, and when her spine hit the edge, she was that girl again – trapped under him, helpless.
“There’s no escape. Wherever you run, I’ll find you.” His fingers found her throat and squeezed. “I’ll always find you. Even in death.”
The walls of the room seemed to close in. All she could feel was the press of his body against hers. It was too much, too familiar, threatening to drag her down into the black. Her mind began to fragment, old memories clawing up from where she buried them.
And then, as if in answer to a prayer—
An explosion outside shattered the silence.
Favreau’s head jerked toward the noise, his grip slackening just enough.
