Zayn’s pov
My body went cold and hot at once. The knife felt raw against my palm; my legs threatened to give out again, but I forced them to hold. I jabbed the blade toward him out of pure reflex, more warning than attack. “Out,” I said, breath coming shallow and hard. “Out of here. Now.”
He laughed—short, amused. Not a hate-filled bark, but a sound that promised consequences. He didn’t move forward; he didn’t need to. The men beside him shifted, closing ranks like a living barricade. Even injured, the buffed man pushed himself up, eyes furious. The lean guy—calm as ever—watched me with something that wasn’t quite pity and wasn’t quite curiosity.
“Bold,” the smirking man said, stepping one lazy pace into the room. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Real bold.”
“I don’t have time for gam
