But before she lost her voice and air, La Roux would break her neck.
Lila panicked at the thought.
Still sitting in her desk chair, she twisted in La Roux’s grasp, frightened that she would do the job for him by bucking too wildly.
What else could she do? Where could she kick, where could she punch, where could she stab with her fingers?
In his eyes?
She stretched forward, but her arms were not long enough.
As La Roux’s hands tightened, she felt all the more powerless, feeble, and vulnerable. She was all too aware that her fighting skills had never progressed beyond drawing and aiming a loaded tranq.
Where was her Colt now?
Put away in her desk drawer, along with her career.
She had no plan for how to get away. She always had a plan and an angle, usually several, but tonight she had nothing but a swelling fear.
Regrets, too. Regrets that she hadn’t started taking more hand-to-hand training.
Regrets that she hadn’t run away with Tristan.
This was Peter Kruger approaching her with a loaded gun.
This was Reaper with a knife to her throat.
This was a room full of Italian mercs pointing guns at her head.
This was her motorcycle out of control, slamming into a brick wall.
This was her last death.
Regrets filled her mind, the same stupid wants and desires she hadn’t followed up on, acts she wished she could take back. She’d die, and Tristan would shrug it off, not caring. He wouldn’t even mourn her loss.
He might even think she deserved it.
Perhaps she did.
She’d killed. Now it was her turn to die.
Lila squeezed her eyes shut. She punched La Roux’s wrists, trying to free herself, but he would not relent. She tried to jerk toward the wine bottle, thinking someone might come if they heard it shatter upon the floor, but La Roux had moved it far away. She stretched her fingers to the desk drawer that contained her Colt, but she couldn’t reach it.
Her bucking did manage to unbalance La Roux slightly. His grip slipped for an instant, allowing her to gulp air before he ratcheted his hands around her neck again. His arms bent at the elbows, face closer, teeth bared in a snarl.
She scratched at his eyes with her fingernails.
That netted a reaction, but not one she wanted. “Bitch,” he sneered, rubbing at his face. Seconds later, blows struck her jaw, her cheek, her chest, and then her stomach.
A kick landed against her ribs.
Instinct brought up her knees. She bowed her head and covered the back of her neck as more strikes landed.
“Murderer,” she yelled. The word came out in a hoarse gasp, and she nearly cried out for the pain.
La Roux stopped and unclenched his hands. His jaw slack, he stared at her face, dumbfounded at what he had done.
Or tried to do.