Page 229 of Caterina
That is all of it.
A healthy version of me has ended this already.
This version of me is bleeding in Caterina Conti’s garden while the woman I love is locked in a safe room beneath the house, probably watching in horror at the scene before her.
Hating me for leaving.
Good. Let her hate me.
Hate is easier to survive than grief.
He swings again.
I slip it too slow, and his fist catches my jaw. My head snaps sideways. The world tilts, and I taste blood.
I drive my shoulder into his midsection and take him down.
We hit the ground hard.
Pain explodes through my side, through my ribs, up my back, into my teeth. For one second, the night disappears. There is only pressure and blood and the sound of my own breath tearing apart in my chest.
He rolls on top.
I block the first punch.
The second hits my cheekbone.
The third goes for my side again.
Smart bastard.
I catch his wrist with both hands before it lands, but my grip is weak now. He presses down, using his weight, his strength, the angle.
My arms tremble.
That is not good.
Once you start trembling in a fight, it’s over.
He knows it too.
His smile widens through the blood on his face. “You’re done.”
No accent I can place. American. East Coast, maybe.
I do not answer.
Talking wastes air.
I buck hard, twisting enough to throw him off balance. My side screams. The wound opens more, warm blood sliding under my shirt and down toward my waistband.
He shifts with me, stays on top, and drives his forearm into my throat.
Air cuts off.
I grab for his face, his eyes, anything. My fingers catch skin, scrape. He flinches.
He increases the pressure.
