That would have been her. A second more at the door, and that blade would have been in her spine.
Ice shot through her veins and Clare ran for the side table, where Eliot’s dagger rested in its sheath. She was nearly there when she was snagged from behind, a rough hand strangling her arm. She pivoted and slammed her balled fist into his sternum, right where Bennick had taught her.
He grunted, hot breath searing her ear, but he managed to haul her back with a steel arm banded around her middle, pinning her arms to her sides. With his free hand he reached for Eliot’s dagger and terror flashed through Clare.
Break free. It was Bennick’s voice in her head and it cut through her fear. She grasped her training like a lifeline and bucked against the assassin’s hold, clawing his legs and arms—any part of him she could reach. He hissed, breath seething against her skin, abandoning Eliot’s knife to wrap both arms around her. He crushed her back to his heaving chest and Clare’s ribs groaned, but she remained focused. She dropped her weight as Bennick had taught her, making the assassin stagger. He overcorrected and Clare took advantage of his unsteadiness by throwing herself to the side. They fell, bouncing away from each other.
Clare gasped as pieces of glass from the broken window pierced through her nightgown and tears scalded her eyes. Slices tore up her arms and crimson blood caught in the moonlight, streaking the shards of glass embedded in her skin. She choked on a scream, aware that the assassin was also hissing in pain. He scrambled back, his clothing offering a little more protection than her thin nightgown—he even had gloves.
The door shuddered as a huge weight rammed into it.
Wilf.
Clare hitched in a breath and forced herself to move, even though the broken glass found new, harsher ways to bite her. She had no doubt Wilf would manage to bring the door down, but even with his bulk it would take a moment.
Clare scrambled to her feet, glass crunching under her slippered feet as she sprung up a second before the assassin did. She kicked his knee from the side and he staggered. She darted for Eliot’s knife, but the assassin hadn’t fallen—he grabbed her arm and threw her back to the floor.
She hit hard, the broken window shards cutting into her body once more. But she couldn’t let the pain slow her. She tried to ignore the blood slicking her fingers and the bits of glass that clung to her skin as she snatched up a jagged piece of glass. She could feel the assassin coming for her, crouching over her. She rolled, swinging the glass shard. The sharp edge cut into his reaching arm and he growled.
Clare tightened her hold on the piece of glass, ignoring the bite of pain as the edges cut into her palm. Her makeshift weapon was slick with her blood and his, but she didn’t drop it. She cut toward his face but the assassin dodged the swipe and caught her wrist, forcing her shaking arm down until it ground painfully against the glass-strewn floor.
Clare’s breath escaped in sharp pants, adrenaline shooting through her, making her body tremble and her pulse roar. The assassin bent over her and she squirmed, kicking out at him, but his knees dug into her sides as he straddled her and he somehow got both of her wrists snared in one hand above her head.
Horror washed through her when his free hand brushed the floor, snagging a curved piece of glass. The point was sharp and wicked—a glass dagger that could easily slit her throat.
Another crash against the door, the boom of impact reverberating throughout the room. Shouting rose, but the pounding of Clare’s heart drowned it out.
The assassin snarled beneath his hood and pure evil shone in his eyes, the only part of him Clare could really see. His grip flexed on the shard of glass, a growl in his throat as he brought it toward her face.
Clare screamed in frustration and fear, bucking against his crippling hold. But he didn’t go for her vulnerable throat. At the last second he shifted his hold on the thick piece of glass, aiming for her heart.
When the tip pierced her chest, Clare’s back arched off the floor, her shriek ringing off the stone walls. An inhuman roar came from the other side of the door, but Clare’s pulse was louder in her ears as the assassin forced the glass deeper, the curved tip tearing toward her heart.
Help would come too late. Realization flashed a second before the assassin grunted, making a final shove.
Clare’s eyes snapped wide and her breath hitched—faltered—then guttered out. The tension in her body eased and she slumped against the floor, tears leaking slowly from the corners of her eyes.
Wilf threw himself at the door again and wood cracked.
The assassin jerked to his feet, leaving the glass shard in her chest as he bolted for the window. A rope dangled, tied off somewhere above. He planted his feet on the window ledge, glass snapping underfoot as he swung out on the rope and scaled the castle wall.
This time when Wilf threw himself at the door it splintered and gave way. The giant man staggered through the opening, his mouth set into a grim line as he caught the darkened room with a sharp look, his eyes skipping past Clare’s inert body to fasten on the swinging rope. He lurched for the broken window, more focused on catching the assassin than helping Clare. Maybe because he’d seen the glass sticking out of her chest and knew she couldn’t be helped.
But Wilf wasn’t alone.
Bennick ran into the room, drawing up short at the sight of her. Clare could only imagine what he thought, seeing her
