GEN-4

Chapter 3

The knife came out of nowhere.

One moment Vex was standing beside the cake, watching Mira pretend to smile for photographs. The next, a blade was sliding toward her ribs from an angle that shouldn't have existed.

She didn't think. She bent.

Her spine curved like a bow. The knife passed through the space where her kidney had been. She felt the air displacement—close enough to shave threads off her jacket.

"Right hook," Ren said.

His voice was calm. Ten feet away. Already turning. Already seeing 0.8 seconds ahead.

Vex moved.

The punch came from her blind side. She caught the wrist—too late to stop it entirely, but enough to redirect. The impact glanced off her shoulder instead of her throat.

Cassian Vey didn't look surprised. He reset.

Three strikes in sequence. High, low, middle. The knife changed hands between strikes—a switch so fast her enhanced eyes almost missed it. She blocked two, twisted past the third. Her left arm popped out of its socket on purpose. The blade scraped past the gap where bone used to be.

She grabbed her own elbow, snapped it back in. The sound made a diplomat vomit somewhere behind her.

"Low sweep," Ren said.

Vex jumped. The knife carved air under her boots.

"Throat thrust."

She dropped her chin, trapped the blade against her collarbone with her jaw. Blood welled. She didn't care.

Behind her, Kael moved.

He stepped between Vex and Cassian's follow-up. No weapon. No hesitation. Just his body. The next punch—aimed at Vex's already-dislocated shoulder—crashed into Kael's forearm instead. Bone met bone. Kael didn't flinch.

"Thanks," Vex breathed.

"Don't thank me. Kill him."

Cassian circled. Guests screaming, scattering. The four fathers being ushered out. Mira pulled away by someone. Ren stood his ground, fingers twitching.

"Pivot left. He's feinting to the knife but stepping into elbow range."

Vex pivoted. Cassian's elbow whistled past her ear.

"Now kidney punch."

She drove her fist into his side. Felt something c***k.

Cassian grunted. His knee came up. Vex twisted—too slow. The knee caught her thigh, dead-legged her. She stumbled.

Kael was there. He took the next hit—a knife s***h meant for her throat—across his palm. Opened his hand like a letter. Blood sprayed.

"Careful," Vex said. "That's my hand now too. We're married."

"Shut up and fight."

She shut up.

Cassian was good. Better than his file suggested. The knife moved like an extension of his nervous system. But he was alone. And they were three.

"Backstep two paces," Ren said. "He's loading a jump kick."

Vex backstepped. Cassian's foot passed through the space her face had occupied. He landed wrong—off balance for just a fraction of a second.

Vex didn't give him time to recover.

She grabbed his knife wrist with both hands. Dislocated her own thumbs to get a better grip. The pain was white and clean. She twisted. The knife clattered to the marble floor.

Cassian headbutted her.

Her nose broke. Blood flooded her mouth. She let go, stumbled back. Thumbs out of joint. Hands useless.

Kael stepped in. Blocked two punches, three, four. His forearms took the hits like meat shields. He wasn't trying to win. He was buying her time.

She grabbed her left thumb. Snapped it back in. Screamed. Grabbed the right. Snapped it. Screamed again.

"Behind you," Ren said.

She spun. Cassian had recovered the knife. It was coming at her chest.

She caught it.

With her palms. The blade cut through flesh, hit bone, stopped. Her blood ran down the steel. She held it there, trapped between her hands and her sternum, and smiled at Cassian with blood on her teeth.

"You should have gone for the head," she said.

She kicked his bad knee. Backward. Sideways. The way knees aren't supposed to bend.

He went down.

Kael was on him instantly. Dragged the knife out of Vex's chest—she gasped—and pressed it to Cassian's throat.

Cassian opened his mouth. To beg. To explain. To offer something.

Kael didn't let him speak.

He cut.

Fast. Clean. Across.

Cassian's eyes went wide. Then empty. His body slumped against the marble.

Vex stood over him, breathing hard. Blood from her nose. Blood from her chest. Blood from her hands. Her thumbs were clicking again.

"Ren," she said.

"Forty-three seconds from first strike to kill," Ren replied. "Efficient. But you took unnecessary damage."

"I won."

"You bled."

"Same thing."

Kael stood. Wiped Cassian's knife on Cassian's shirt. Tossed it aside.

"Four fathers are going to want a report," he said.

"Four fathers can wait," Vex replied. "I need stitches. And a drink. In that order."

"You need to not die from blood loss first."

"Then stop talking and help me walk."

Kael put her arm over his shoulder. She leaned into him. Not because she needed to. Because she wanted to. Just for a second.

Mira appeared from somewhere. Pale. Shaking. Her hands went to Vex's chest before anyone could stop her.

"Don't," Vex said.

"You're bleeding."

"I know. Don't take the pain. You'll pass out."

"I don't care."

"Mira." Vex's voice was softer now. "Not today. Save it for someone who needs it."

Mira's hands hovered. Then dropped. Tears rolled down her face. "You could have died."

"Didn't."

"That's not the point."

Vex reached up with a bloody hand. Wiped a tear off Mira's cheek. Left a red streak.

"Go find your husband," Vex said. "He's probably already calculated my blood volume and predicted my time of death."

"He's not my husband. Not really."

"None of us are really anything. Go."

Mira went.

Kael guided Vex toward the side exit. The cathedral was empty now. Just bodies—one dead, two bleeding, one untouched.

"Ren," Kael said over his shoulder. "Clean this up."

"Already on it."

They walked out into the cold capital night. Vex's blood dripped onto the marble steps. Kael's hand—the one she'd cut—was still leaking.

"You need stitches too," she said.

"I know."

"That makes two of us."

Kael looked at her. Blood on her face. Broken nose. Thumbs half out of their sockets. And that stupid defiant look that said she'd do it all again.

"Three days," he said. "Honeymoon suite. No contacts."

"You're going to patch me up?"

"I'm going to try."

"Good." She leaned heavier into him. "Because I'm terrible at stitching myself."

"Your thumbs are dislocated."

"Not the point."

"What's the point?"

She didn't answer. Just kept walking.

The honeymoon suite had a first aid kit. And a bed. And seventy-two hours of silence ahead.

Kael carried her inside. Kicked the door shut.

The room smelled like vanilla and bad decisions. He didn't care. He walked her to the bathroom, sat her on the edge of the tub, and started opening cabinets until he found the first aid kit.

Her jacket came off. Then her shift. She didn't ask him to turn around. He didn't offer.

The wound on her chest was ugly—deep, diagonal, still weeping. The knife had hit bone and stopped, but not before carving a trench across her sternum. Her collarbone was bruised black where she'd trapped the blade. Her nose was crooked. Her thumbs were already swelling.

Kael poured antiseptic onto a cloth. "This will burn."

He pressed it to her chest.

She sucked air through her teeth but didn't make a sound. Her hand found his thigh. Squeezed. He let her.

"You're good at this," she said.

"At what?"

"Not being gentle."

He didn't answer. He threaded a needle. Curved. Surgical. He'd stitched himself more times than he could count. Stitching someone else was easier—you could see what you were doing, could hold the skin steady without your own nerve endings screaming.

He pierced her flesh. She watched.

"You could at least look away," he said.

"Why? It's my body."

"You're not supposed to watch yourself get sewn up."

"Says who?"

He pulled the thread through. Tied it off. Started the next stitch.

Her hand was still on his thigh. He felt it through his dress pants. Her fingers were cold. Blood under her nails.

"Your hand needs stitches too," she said.

"After you."

"You'll bleed out first."

"I've bled out before. I'm still here."

"That's not a flex."

He finished the third stitch. Fourth. Fifth. Her chest was closing. She'd have a scar. A good one. The kind that reminded you you'd survived something stupid.

When he was done, he pressed a gauze pad over the wound. Taped it down. His palm left a redprint on her skin.

"Your turn," she said.

She pulled his hand toward her. Looked at the s***h across his palm—deep enough to see the muscle beneath. She took the needle from him.

"Give me your hand."

"You don't know how to stitch."

"I've watched you do it a hundred times."

"Watching isn't—"

She pushed the needle through his skin.

He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just watched her work. She was slower than him. Less precise. But her hands didn't shake. She was concentrating the way she concentrated on a fight—jaw tight, eyes narrow, breathing even.

"You're doing it wrong," he said.

"Shut up."

"The spacing is uneven."

"I said shut up."

He shut up.

She tied the last knot. Bit the thread off with her teeth. Looked up at him.

"There. Now we match."

He looked down at his palm. Seven stitches. Crooked. Functional.

"It's ugly," he said.

"It's mine."

She didn't let go of his hand.

"Three days," she said quietly.

"Seventy-two hours."

"Alone."

"No contacts."

He looked at her. Really looked. Not the way he looked at enemies. Not the way he looked at exits. The way you look at someone when there's nothing left to hide behind.

"You're still bleeding," he said.

"So are you."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

She leaned forward. Her forehead touched his. Her breath was warm. Her lips were split and bloody and close enough to taste.

"We should probably shower," she said.

"Yeah."

"Together. Saves water."

"Saves water."

"It's practical."

"Very practical."

Neither of them moved.

Then she kissed him.

Not like the wedding. Not performance. Not defiance. Slower. Messier. Her broken nose made the angle wrong. Her split lip bled into his mouth. He didn't care.

His hands found her waist. Her blood on his fingers. Her skin warm under the cold.

She pulled back just enough to speak. "Bed. Now."

"Your chest—"

"Bed. Now. Or I'll stitch your mouth shut."

He carried her. Not because she couldn't walk. Because she let him.

The silk sheets were white. They wouldn't be white for long.

She pulled at his uniform. Buttons. Belt. Too many layers. She made an impatient sound—the same sound she made when a target took too long to die. He almost laughed.

"Patience," he said.

"I don't have patience. I have thumbs that keep dislocating."

He helped her. Stripped down. Let her look at him the way he'd looked at her. She touched the scar on his ribs. The shrapnel wound from the compound. Still pink. Still healing.

"That one's new," she said.

"This morning."

"You're an idiot."

"You married me."

"Not the point."

She pushed him onto the bed. Climbed on top of him. Her weight on his hips. Her thighs bracketing his. The bandage on her chest was already spotting through with red.

"You're going to reopen your stitches," he said.

"Then stitch them again."

She kissed him. Harder this time. Her hands in his hair. Her hips pressing down. He groaned—low, involuntary. She smiled against his mouth.

"There he is," she whispered.

"There who is?"

"The one under the ice."

She moved. Slow at first. Then faster. His hands found her hips, her waist, her breasts. She bit his shoulder when she came—drew blood, left a mark. He flipped them over. Pinned her wrists above her head. Her thumbs clicked but didn't give.

"Mine," he said.

"Prove it."

He did.

Again. Slower. Deeper. Watching her face the whole time. Her eyes never left his. Not once.

When it was over, they lay in the ruined sheets. Blood and sweat and something else. Something neither of them had a name for.

Vex traced the stitches on his palm.

"Seventy-two hours," she said.

"Sixty-nine now."

"What are we going to do for the rest of it?"

He turned his head. Looked at her. Bruised. Broken. Defiant.

"I can think of a few things."