Gripping his wrist with all my strength, I wrench it in the opposite direction, straining tendon and crushing bone as I force the blade upward, out of harm’s way.
Then I yank it free from his hold.
Rather than conceding, the man goes for Aisling again, sacrificing his weapon with the intention of killing her with his bare hands.
Something inside me snaps.
Before he can take a step, I drive the knife into him.
Once.
Twice.
A clean, efficient motion drilled into me from years of violence I pretend doesn’t live in my very bones.
I’m not naturally inclined to violence like Miko and Sandro—far less interested in the heat of the fight.
But right now, my blood is boiling, and all I see is red.
The would-be assassin collapses at my feet, breath rattling out of him in a wet gasp before it stops altogether.
Silence crashes down.
It happened so fast, my men didn’t even have time to come to my aid. But now my guards are on us in an instant, weapons drawn, eyes scanning for any further sign of danger.
One of them swears softly. Another drags the body back into the shadows of the alley like it’s refuse.
I barely register their actions as I turn to check on Aisling.
She’s frozen, eyes wide, breath shallow, staring at the dark stain smearing the pavement.
“Aisling,” I say, my voice rough. “Look at me.”
It takes a second, but she does.
“Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head. Once. Then again. “I don’t think so.” But her voice is distant, detached, like her mind is somewhere far away.
I pull her against me without thinking, my hand cradling the back of her head, shielding her from the scene, even though it’s already burned into both of us.
“Get rid of the body,” I bark to my men.
Then I’m steering Aisling into the open door of the car, my arm locked around her as if she might vanish if I loosen my grip.
She’s trembling against me, shock coursing through her in silent waves, and as soon as the door closes, warm air enfolding us, I’m gathering her into my arms as if I can physically stop her from falling apart.
The ride home is a blur as I focus my attention on Aisling’s blank stare, her dangerously pale face.
Murmured words of assurance don’t seem to register with her, and my stomach coils with anxiety as I start to wonder if she did, in fact, get injured.
But when I gently search her, keeping one arm wrapped around her waist as I adjust her jacket to check for signs of blood, I come away with nothing.
Finally, the car pulls to a stop in the driveway, and I usher Aisling up the front steps and into the house, steering her toward our bedroom, where she can fall apart behind the privacy of closed doors if she needs.
Easing her into the reading chair, I leave her just long enough to pour her a stiff drink from the small bar cart we keep tucked in the corner of the room.
She accepts the whiskey without a word and simply stares into its amber depths, her breaths coming shallow and fast.