Page 241 of Mine Again
Shit. She must have cut herself.
Rage goes hot and clean. My vision tightens to a pin. Every part of me wants Hale’s throat under my hand. He made her bleed. He’ll pay for every drop.
I spot the occasional blood speck on the tiles, darkening at the rims. Ice slides through my chest.
I drop my gaze and follow the drops, a breadcrumb trail that darkens as it goes. My heart hammers harder with every step.
The red droplets angle right, then cut toward the far corner. A scuff, a slip, a clean dot on the grout. She has to be close. I lengthen my stride, moving faster.
A cupboard sits crooked from the wall. Behind it, a narrow opening breathes cool, stale air.
I raise a hand to the two men with me. “Hold the hall. No one follows.”
I hear her before I see her. Isa’s voice tears down the passage like a whip.
It’s a voice I’d recognize among thousands, underwater or in space.
Gratitude hits me like a meteorite impact.
My butterfly is alive.
I slip into the narrow passageway, rifle tight, eyes hunting the glow. I spot her right away, upright and fierce with a bow in her hand.
Her hair has come loose from its tie, strands stuck damp to her cheek. Blood streaks her knuckles, and there’s a cut on one forearm. She’s fierce and vulnerable all at once.
A new wave of relief slams through me, real enough to buckle my knees. The world snaps into a single point. Isa, standing proud.
“You pathetic weasel. Running from a war you started, like a coward. If you were in the army, they would shoot you on the spot for deserting. There are people dying for you out there while you hide like a piss-soaked rabbit. My little sister has more balls than you. You’re a half-assed Bond villain in a borrowed suit, a knockoff jackal in cufflinks with a paper spine. You sorry excuse for a man. Useless, gutless, sniveling trash.”
Pride cuts through me so sharply I almost laugh.
Myfarfallais standing over Hale with a short recurve, another arrow nocked, shoulders high and steady. Her breathing is fast but her grip is rock-solid. She doesn’t look away from him.
He’s on the ground, writhing, his face a tormented mask of pain. One arrow pins his left forearm to the floor through the meat below the elbow. Another spears the right, buried through muscle and oak. A third is sunk deep in his thigh, a dark bloom spreading around the shaft. His gun lies a few feet away, kicked out of reach.
“Move again, you worthless piece of shit, and I’ll pin your other leg,” she tells him, her voice low with promise.
He gurgles something that might be a threat, “You’ll regret…,” before it collapses into a wet whimper that dies on the concrete.
I take a second to fully relish the sight. Isa, queen on the attack. Hale, a pinned pawn with no moves left. It might be the highlight of my life so far.
“I never knew you could swear like that,” I say, equal parts proud and awed.
She turns. The bow dips, then lowers. The arrow stays in her fingers, but her face changes.
Relief breaks over her so fierce it’s almost pain.
Her mouth parts. A breath shudders out.
Our eyes lock.
The alarms fade to a far hiss, and the tunnel narrows to the color of her irises.
Time stretches thin. I hear my heartbeat answer hers. For a few seconds, we just stare at each other.
Then I move. She runs. I do the same.
We crash together in the middle of the passage. Her bow knocks my shoulder. My rifle bumps the wall. None of it matters.
