But none of that matters now.
All I have is my knife, my slippery and evasive size, and my will to survive.
And all three will be used to my advantage.
He exposes his left wrist and I catch another glimpse of the dark stain upon his flesh. It’s too fast for me to get much of a look, other than to notice that the marking appears more faded now.
Whatever the design means, the sight of it makes him curse, and he shoves the sleeve down again.
“Dead end,” Gregor growls, the words made of crushed stones.
I can’t tell if the wrist thing is supposed to be a distraction, but I’m done underestimating him. I’m done letting this vile creature puppeteer the game ofwho will win: me or the monstersthat I was thrust into the day I was born. I’ve been outrunning noctis and cheating death longer than he has. I’ve had practice with surviving the monsters because I know that my life could be forfeit any second of any day.
He, on the other hand, believes himself impervious. With any luck, it’s that ego that’ll get him killed.
“Cute,” I say, leaning onto one hip and cocking my head at him. “But last I checkedyouwere the one running like a scared little boy. What’s the matter? Afraid to lose a fight against a mortal girl?”
The only warning I get that he’s about to lunge is the slightest flash of his bared teeth before his feet are tearing back down the alleyway toward me. Arms outstretched, I’d expect to find claws at the end of his sausage fingers, instead of the gnawed down, bloodstained fingertips.
But his hands aren’t the weapons I need to keep my eyes on.
Sharp fangs poke down from his upper jaw on a mighty roar that shakes my heart.
I grab my knife and raise it, blade shaking as panic climbs up my spine. I feel fucking ridiculous. It’s been…I can’t even remember the last time I used this knife on anything other than skinning the poor critters that wander into my traps. And something tells me that he’s not just going to sit here and let me flay him.
One of Gregor’s arms hitches back, a mighty blow prepping to launch into my face once he’s close enough. And in a few more strides, he will be.
I move my aim, positioning my knife at the large man’s cocked fist—as if that’s going to deter him in any way, shape, or form. As if seeing my tiny ass blade is going to make him stop dead in his tracks, and be like,Oh shit. You have a knife? My mistake. I will be on my way then and let you resume your scouting.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Never—ever—fight a noctis. Not in hand-to-hand combat. And certainly not when there was a choice to just let himrun.
Instead, I foolishly thought of the town. Of the people I lost in Hulbeck. And I’d let my fragile, human heart feel sorry for them. Feel guilty for bringing about their demise. When in reality they chose to live with a target on their backs! Not me!
I should’ve let Gregor run, warned them about the information he had about their location, and then left the fucking city.
I guess it’s too late now.
Frightened, and backed into a dark corner, I can’t help but feel like the small child I’d been the day Hulbeck was destroyed. I’m not sure I’ll ever outgrow her. Truthfully, the noctis will always terrify me. They will always be stronger, faster, deadlier. No matter how long I survive, or how many I fight.
I am just human. A nobody. A nothing.
With his arm still locked in position, Gregor grabs my wrist with his other hand and twists my knife down. The angle my arm snaps into sends an excruciating jolt of pain into my elbow, but not as excruciating as when his fist collides with my face. My jaw burns, a white-hot light illuminating my vision and engulfing my face.
My body wants to fly backward, across the alleyway and maybe even slam into one of the walls still standing nearby, but his hold won’t allow it. When I bow backward, Gregor yanks me forward. My chest presses against his rotund belly, my cheek slamming up against a dried-up stream of blood that must’ve stained his shirt the last time he fed.
My thoughts are hazy clouds that have forgotten which way to drift. They slide upward and downward, back and forth, each one colliding into the next without rhyme or reason. The panic is there, but it’s drowning at the bottom, unable to latch onto any of the half-formed ideas that keep slipping by it.
He’s about to…
I should…
What will happen when…
Can I reach my…
I’m barely aware of my body or his. I feel the pressure of something wrap around my back and hold me in place. My head is yanked back by a fistful of hair, but I’m too dazed and too weak to fight for a more comfortable position.
