The tactical combat knife weighed exactly one point two pounds.
Jane knew this because her brain immediately cataloged the weight, the cross-hatched grip of the steel handle, and the precise angle of the serrated edge. It was easier to process the math of the weapon than to process the fact that the man bleeding out on her Persian rug was actively mutating into a nightmare.
"Cut them out."
The voice didn't belong to the cold, bespoke surgeon who had claimed her at the dinner table. It was a wet, guttural scrape of vocal cords tearing themselves apart.
Michael’s spine bowed off the floorboards. The sickening c***k of his bones shifting echoed over the heavy drumming of rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass. His bespoke suit jacket was already ruined, shredded by the sudden, violent ex
