38. One Shot. One Chance. #2
Not footsteps, not fabric. Presence. It prickles the nape of my neck before my brain catches up. My heart pounds against my ribs. Every nerve fires. I stop. Completely.
Then it hits. Cologne. Darren’s cologne.
My stomach bottoms out, adrenaline slicing through me like a blade. I don’t see him but I feel him—watching, waiting.
My hands twitch at my sides. I need to move. To run. To—
Footsteps. Unhurried, leisurely, coming up from below.
I suck in a breath as Darren strolls into view. He saunters toward me, hands in his pockets like he has all the time in the world, like I haven’t spent the last few months terrified for my life.
His eyes lock on mine, and a smirk curves across his face.
“Melina.”
His voice is smooth, almost amused. The cruelty in it makes my blood run cold—so much malice, so much twisted satisfaction.
I hesitate. A mistake.
The second I turn to run, his hand clamps around my ankle and yanks. He pulls me back, and I lose my footing, pitching down the stairs. My shoulder slams against a step as I crash onto the landing. A strangled cry rips out.
He’s on me before I can react, flipping me onto my back, pinning me under his weight. I buck beneath him, sneakers skidding, arms thrashing.
His fist tangles in my hair, jerking my head up before driving it down into the concrete. Pain explodes behind my eyes. My hands fly to his wrist, but he’s already shifting, dragging me to my feet.
“Somebody help!” I scream.
His grip closes around my neck, cutting off air. He hurls me into the wall, my skull cracking against the cement with a sickening thud.
He hauls me up until my feet dangle. A choked, panicked gasp tears from me as I claw at his hands. I kick and flail, but it’s useless—he’s too strong.
His face hovers inches from mine, eyes wild with manic rage. “Seventeen years,” he hisses, laced with venom. “That’s what you took from me.”
He smiles, all teeth and malice, like a predator savoring the kill. “You took my life. Now I take yours.”
Then he slams me down again. My back hits the landing with bone-rattling force. “Not so tough without your pack of muscle-bound attack dogs, huh?” he sneers.
My chest caves under his weight. He straddles me, hands back at my throat, squeezing. The pressure is unrelenting. My vision tunnels.
This is it. I’m going to die here, alone in this stairwell, and his face will be the last thing I ever see.
But then I see him—Jack.
He’s smiling in the sunlight, warm and peaceful, haloed by golden light. It feels like heaven, like I’m already there. A gentle calm washes over me. Maybe this is okay. Maybe I can finally rest.
Then I hear his voice— “Fight, Melina. Your children need you.”
Then—memories.
Declan as a boy, building skyscrapers out of Legos, face scrunched in deep concentration.
Harper twirling across the stage at her first recital, arms lifted, eyes shining.
Spencer sprinting down the field, his foot connecting with the ball, sending it sailing into the net.
Matt’s lips on mine, the morning he left for his last mission.
Riding shotgun with Jax, windows down, both of us singing at the top of our lungs like we didn’t have a care in the world.
A life. My life. And I’m not ready to let go.
My fingers fumble for my pocket—searching, reaching, desperate.
I have one shot. One chance.
Darkness curls at the edge of my vision, pressing in. My grip falters. No. Not yet.
Then, cool steel meets my skin—Diego’s knife.
It anchors me, biting into my palm, reminding me I’m not finished.
My fingers close around the handle. I draw it free, and snap the blade open with a quiet, deliberate flick. He doesn’t notice. He’s lost to his rage, too consumed to recognize what’s coming.
Here will drop them fast—collapses the lung.
Diego’s voice cuts through the haze, echoing in my mind. A lesson from another life. A lifeline.
I thrust it upward beneath his collarbone, angling deep. It rips through flesh as I push into muscle, thick and resistant.
Darren gasps. His body seizes, and a wet, choking sound bursts from his throat. His grip on my neck loosens, but he doesn’t let go.
If you ever have to use it, babe, make it count.
Matt’s voice now, clear and sharp inside my head. I rip the knife free. Hot blood spatters across my chest. The metallic scent floods my nose.
Fast and messy, but effective.
I don’t hesitate. Every ounce of strength I have left goes into the next strike. I drive the knife into his neck until it hits bone. It sinks to the hilt, tearing through flesh and artery straight through the carotid.
When I wrench it free, Darren jerks, one hand flying to his throat, eyes wide. Blood pours from the wound, swift and unrelenting.
For the first time, I see it. Fear. Real, raw, undeniable fear. He knows he’s lost.
His chest convulses once. Then again. And then he collapses on top of me.
A ragged scream tears from me as his full weight crashes down. My ribs protest under the crush. My lungs drag in air like broken machines.
Blood fills my mouth. My teeth. My skin.
And then—darkness.