And in the next heartbeat—
Marcus lunged.
Fenwick recovered his footing with a snarl.
The dagger caught the lamplight. “Stay back!” Fenwick barked, shoving Lila aside and swinging toward Marcus’s ribs.
Marcus twisted. Steel kissed the fabric, snapping a thread and slicing his coat. Too close. Fenwick pressed in, wild with spite rather than skill, a man fighting not to win but to hurt.
Marcus met him head-on.
What Fenwick did not see, what he never imagined, was Lila.
She had only dropped to her knees. Her wrists were bound, but her mind was sharp, tracking every shift of weight, every ragged breath, every flaw in Fenwick’s form.
Fenwick had many.
“Marcus!” she warned.
The dagger arced toward Marcus’s throat.
Marcus ducked cleanly. The blade whispered past his ear. He pivoted, caught Fenwick’s wrist, and drove him backward into the stacked crates.
Wood splintered.
Fenwick tore free with a snarl and slashed again.
Marcus blocked with his forearm. A shallow cut marked the skin. He did not falter.
He saw Lila behind Fenwick. She met his eyes.
A silent exchange passed between them.
Distract him.
I see you.
Now.
Marcus shifted his stance, opening his left side, feigning more injury than he carried.
Fenwick lunged toward the weakness.
That was his mistake.
Lila moved.
She surged upward, bracing against the crate behind her. As Fenwick committed his weight to the strike, she swept her bound hands up and forward, catching his arm from behind.
It was not strength. It was angle. It was timing. It was Lila.
Fenwick lurched, thrown off balance.
Marcus seized the opening.
He slammed Fenwick’s wrist into the wooden beam, once, twice. Fenwick screamed as bone met wood, the dagger flying from his grip.
Fenwick roared and lunged too far.