The night reeked of iron and smoke. The battle had been ruthless, bodies littering the ruined village like discarded chess pieces. I should have left, should have regrouped with my men, but something—something unexplainable—kept me moving through the wreckage.

And then I saw her.

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She was slumped against a broken stone wall, blood soaking her side, her breathing shallow. Her eyes, once sharp and burning with hatred, were hazy now, unfocused.

I should have felt victorious. I should have let fate take her, watched as my greatest rival bled out into the dirt.

But I didn’t.

“Damn it,” I hissed, dropping to my knees beside her.

Her gaze flickered to me, and even on the brink of unconsciousness, she still found the strength to glare. Stubborn as ever.

I ignored the way my chest clenched at the sight of her like this.

Yanking off a strip of my sleeve. I pressed it against her wound, and she flinched, a soft, pained noise slipping from her lips. My jaw tightened.

“Why… helping me, Zev?” she whispered, voice weak.

I froze for a second. She never said my name like that. It was always with venom, always a weapon.

I clenched my teeth, pushing down the flood of emotions I didn’t have time to deal with.

“Because if anyone is going to kill you,” I said, voice rough, “it’s me.”

I lifted her into my arms, her body limp against mine. She didn’t fight me. She was too weak. And that terrified me more than I wanted to admit.

I had spent years trying to break her, to bring her to her knees. Now, I was the one fighting to keep her standing.