Seraphina's Point Of View
Diego chuckled, the sound grating against my ear like broken glass. "You don't scare me, American. Move away, right now, and the girl lives. Try to be a hero, and you'll be wiping her blood off your expensive shoes."
The gun barrel bit harder into my temple, the metal freezing against the sweat on my skin. My vision spun, the concussion throbbing in a rhythmic, agonizing pulse at the back of my head. I couldn't breathe. I looked across the ruined room at Draven, my eyes wide, desperately pleading with him.
Don't tempt him. Please.
I knew Diego. I knew what happened when he was backed into a corner; he was a rabid dog who would tear his own throat out just to make sure you bled too. I had seen it before, years ago, in a different room with different blood pooling on different tile, and the memory alone made my stomach twist into a cold, hard knot.
