To cut, her shoulders began to shake before the knife even moved.
When it did, it was precise.
The sound came first. Not a scream. Not yet. A wet, strangled noise that caught in the back of her throat as the steel dragged forward. Her body convulsed against the grip holding her. Her hands clawed uselessly at Victor's wrist, nails scraping skin that did not loosen. Blood filled her mouth faster than she could swallow.
Across the space, Robert moved.
He was already halfway up before anyone reacted, his face twisted with something reckless and doomed. He did not shout. He did not think, he lunged.
Pope met him before he took a second step.
The punch was clean. Brutal. Direct.
