I shoved the blade deeper into Darge's throat.
Sacha's glass edge slid through flesh like it wasn't even there, a clean, perfect line of pale brilliance sinking into the dark meat of his neck. Warm blood spilled instantly, coating my hand, sliding across my knuckles.
For one fractured second, I thought that was it, that the bastard would finally fall, that all the fear, all the dread twisting in my ribs since the moment we found him would bleed out onto the dirt.
But I was wrong.
By the time the blade reached the midway point of his neck, it was already too late.
Darge's hand snapped up.
Not fast.
Not frantic.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Certain.
His fingers clamped around the glass blade—around Sacha—with the strength of something that had no business existing in a human body.
The sword stopped.
Completely immobilized.
