I was alone. And James had seconds.
Elliot’s grin widened, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the knife. His voice turned almostgentle.
“You push past pain. You push past fire.Show me how far you’ll go.”
He twisted the blade against James’s skin, enough to draw a thinred line. Jamesflinchedbut didn’t make a sound.
I forced myself a step forward, ignoring the agony tearing through my legs. “Let him go.” My voice came out hoarse, scraped raw from breathing in too much smoke.
Elliot tilted his head, considering me. Then his eyeslit up.
“Your father burned,” he murmured. “And I’ll make sure you do, too.”
He moved in onefluid motion—a practiced flick of his wrist slicing through fabric and flesh.
James gasped. A bright line of crimson bloomed on his arm.
Next, Elliot pressed the bladeto James’s shirtand flicked the lighter in his free hand. Fire erupted.
James twisted away with ashout, his shoulder catching fire, the flames licking up his sleeve. Hestaggered back, swiping at it with his free hand, but the accelerant made it spreadfast.
Something inside mesnapped. There was no thought. No hesitation. I moved.
My bodyshouldn’t havebeen capable of it. Every muscle screamed like my ribs weresplintering apart, and my lungs burned, but none of that mattered.
Because James wason fire.
Because Elliot haddone this.
Because I wasgoing to tear him apart.
Ilaunchedat him, crossing the distance in a single heartbeat. Elliot barely had time to turn before my full weightslammedinto him.
Wehit the pavement. Hard.
A solid crack echoed through my skull, but I didn’t care—I wason him, my fists already moving before the pain registered.
Elliotgrunted, twisting beneath me, but I wasbigger, andangrier, andfucking done playing his game.
I swungwildly, without precision, without strategy—brute forcefueled by every ounce of rage I had left. My knuckles cracked against his jaw, splitting skin. Bloodspatteredagainst the pavement.
Elliotsnarled, bringing the knife up fast, too fast. White-hot pain tore through my side.
Ijerked, a guttural noise ripping from my throat, but I caught hiswristbefore he could drive the blade indeeper. Iwrenched his arm back hard enough to make his muscles strain. His grip on the knifetightened, but I had the leverage.
Islammed his wrist against the pavement.
Once.
Twice.
Crack.
His scream washigh-pitched, raw. The knifeclatteredto the ground.
I was breathing hard, my vision swimming from pain and blood loss, but I didn’t let go. Hisbones shifted under my grip, his wrist hanging at an unnatural angle, and still, Elliot’s eyesglowedwith something twisted.
I realized too late—
