CHAPTER 16 #2
Morgan tripped violently. His center of gravity was completely destroyed by his own forward momentum. He went flying forward, his forehead smashing with a sickening, hollow THUD against the sharp, heavy oak edge of the kitchen island.
The Glock flew out of his hand, skidding across the polished floorboards with a loud metallic rattle, disappearing beneath the low skirt of the leather sofa in the adjoining living room.
Morgan groaned, rolling onto his back, blood streaming from the gash on his forehead directly into his eyes.
But the man was fueled by sheer, psychotic survival instincts and toxic rage.
Before I could step in to pin him to the floor, he kicked out violently with both feet, catching me squarely in the knees.
The blow threw off my balance. My massive frame went down, crashing heavily onto the outdoor balcony deck through the open sliding glass doors.
I hit the cedar planks hard, the cool night air instantly whipping against my bare chest. I rolled over instantly, but Morgan scrambled after me like a rabid dog, throwing his entire body weight onto my torso before I could regain my footing.
He was smaller than me, but desperation and adrenaline gave him a terrifying strength. He straddled my waist, pinning my hips to the deck, and brought his right fist down in a brutal, heavy hook straight into my jaw.
PAFF.
Pain burst across my face, hot and sharp. The iron taste of my own blood instantly filled my mouth as my lip split against my teeth. My head snapped to the side, but my mind remained ice-cold.
"You thought you were better than me?" Morgan roared, his face contorted into a mask of pure hate, his spittle landing on my neck. "You thought you could take what’s mine, Doc, huh?"
He raised his fists again, but I didn't panic. I flexed my core, driving two devastating, short-range liver shots directly into his exposed ribcage with my left and right fists.
THUD. THUD.
I felt his floating ribs give way with a soft, crunchy yield beneath my knuckles.
Morgan gasped, his face draining of color as the agonizing pain tore through his central nervous system, short-circuiting his breathing.
But he refused to back down. Ignoring the excruciating agony in his side, he dropped his weight and drove his thick, calloused fingers straight toward my throat, clamping down on my windpipe with everything he had.
Air ceased to enter my lungs. The pressure against my carotid arteries was immense.
I reached up, grabbing his wrists, digging my thumbs into his pressure points, but his grip was locked in a death panic.
My vision began to flicker at the edges, tiny pinpricks of black and red light dancing across my sight.
I could feel the rough texture of the cedar deck beneath my back, the cool mountain breeze whistling through the railing, the wet warmth of my own blood dripping down my chin.
Suddenly, a shadow loomed over us on the moonlit balcony.
It was Ciara.
She stood framed in the sliding doorway, bathed in the silvery glow of the full moon.
Her pink silk robe was torn at the shoulder, her dark braids wild and free around her face.
Her breathing was coming in shallow, frantic gasps, her chest heaving—but her eyes were not the eyes of a victim.
They were wide, dark, and blazing with a terrifying, primal instinct.
In her right hand, catching the moonlight in a brilliant, razor-sharp beam, was my surgical stencil knife.
She had grabbed it off the coffee table while hiding in the dark.
She didn't scream. She didn't hesitate. She didn't freeze in feminine helplessness.
Ciara stepped up behind Morgan’s exposed back. She raised the stencil knife high, her knuckles white around the ergonomic handle, and with all the force, speed, and weight in her body, she drove the razor-sharp tungsten carbide blade straight into the right side of his neck.
THWACK.
The ultra-fine, surgically sharpened blade passed through his skin, muscle, and tissue like warm butter, severing the carotid artery and tearing into his jugular with terrifying, frictionless ease.
Morgan froze instantly.
His hands left my windpipe, flying up to his neck as a high-pitched, wet whistling sound escaped his open mouth. His eyes rolled back, wide with absolute disbelief and sheer horror, as he looked over his shoulder at the woman he had tried to possess.
Ciara pulled the blade back with a swift, violent jerk.
A fountain of deep, dark crimson blood erupted from the gaping wound, spraying across the cedar floorboards in a thick, hot arc. It splashed over my bare chest, soaked through Ciara’s pink robe, and painted the white wooden railing of the balcony in heavy, glistening streaks.
Morgan collapsed off me, falling onto his side on the blood-slicked deck.
He curled into a tight fetal position, his hands frantically trying to hold the open wound together, his legs twitching violently as his lungs gasped for air that was rapidly filling with his own blood.
A wet, choking gurgle rattled in his chest as his life force poured out onto the wood, pooling around my feet.
I pushed myself up into a sitting position, wiping the bloody smear from my split lip with the back of my hand, breathing in long, deep gulps of cool night air.
I reached out my hand. "Ciara."
She stood there, frozen like a statue, staring down at the twitching man at her feet. Her hands were dripping with blood. The stencil knife was held loosely in her grip, its tungsten blade painted in thick crimson.
I gently wrapped my fingers around the handle of the knife, taking it from her grasp, and stood up over Morgan’s dying body.
I watched with quiet, clinical detachment as his pupils dilated into complete darkness, his gasping slowed into shallow hitches, and the wild, chaotic light in his eyes slowly extinguished until he lay completely motionless in a lake of his own cooling blood.
He was gone. The threat had been permanently, irreversibly erased from our existence.
"Is... is he dead?" Ciara whispered.
Her voice was barely audible above the rustling of the pine trees. Her entire body began to shake uncontrollably, a violent, full-body tremor taking hold of her limbs as the adrenaline began to flush out of her system, leaving behind raw, naked shock.
I set the knife down on the balcony table, stepping over Morgan’s corpse, and closed the distance between us. I wrapped my massive, warm arms around her shivering frame, pulling her tight against my chest, shielding her from the gruesome sight.
"Yes, sweetheart," I murmured into her wet braids, my baritone deep, steady, and grounding. "He’s dead. It’s completely over."
The moment those words left my mouth, the thin structural dam holding Ciara together completely shattered.
She buried her face into the crook of my neck, letting out a ragged, sobbing cry that shook her entire frame.
Her fingers dug violently into my waist, gripping my skin as if she were a drowning survivor clinging to a life raft.
"I killed him... God, Joshua, I actually killed him..." she wept, her breath coming in rapid, hyperventilating hitches. "I stabbed him... I felt the blade go into his neck..."
"You saved my life, Ciara," I whispered, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the top of her head, my hand stroking the length of her back in slow, soothing motions.
"You did what you had to do to protect us.
He was going to kill me, and then he was going to destroy you.
You were brave. You were brilliant. Come inside. "
I guided her slowly away from the bloody deck, holding her shoulder firm, stepping around the dark pool of blood. I led her into the warm living room, sitting her down gently on the soft leather couch. I walked into the kitchen, poured a tall glass of ice-cold tap water, and brought it back to her.
"Drink this," I instructed softly, sitting beside her and wrapping her shaking fingers around the glass. "Slow sips, sweetheart. Focus on my voice. Take deep, slow breaths."
Ciara brought the glass to her lips with shaking hands, drinking half of it in long, thirsty gulps.
The shock of the cold water seemed to act like a system reset.
The pale, ash-like hue on her chocolate skin slowly receded, her breathing evening out into a rhythmic, steady pattern, though her dark eyes remained wide, fixed on the dark hardwood floor.
"Thanks for saving me," I said gently, reaching out to brush a stray braid away from her eye.
Ciara took a deep, shuddering breath, setting the glass down on the side table.
She looked up at me, and as I watched her eyes, I witnessed a profound, terrifying, and utterly beautiful transformation take place within her psyche.
The fear dissipated. The guilt evaporated.
In their place, a cold, hardened resilience settled into her features.
"Don't mention it..." she murmured, her voice dropping into a quiet, icy register that chilled the air.
"I wouldn't have that bastard hurt you. It was pure adrenaline, Joshua.
I saw that knife thingy on the coffee table while I was hiding in the dark...
and then I saw him on top of you, punching you, choking you...
I thought I had to do something. So I reached for it, ran out there, and just stabbed him with my eyes closed. "
"That must have been extraordinarily hard for you," I said softly, my thumb smoothing over her jawline.
Ciara leaned into my touch, letting out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to drain the last remnants of vulnerability from her soul.
"Somewhat..." she whispered, looking straight into my eyes. "But... truth be told, I’ve always wanted to do something to that bastard. For everything he put me through. For every time he made me feel small, weak, and terrified. And now he finally got his recompense. I’m a killa now, I guess."