I was already moving before the gun finished rising.
Still comfortable on the couch, my hand came up in a smooth arc, the knife settling into my palm as if it had always been there. There was no hesitation, no adjustment. Just a clean release.
The blade spun once before it buried itself in Baby's shoulder with a wet, solid impact that carried further than it should have in the quiet.
The fact that it was the same spot that I had knifed him before was not lost on me.
His arm dropped immediately.
The gun wavered, then slipped from his grip as his muscles seized. His mouth opened, but the sound that came out was wrong—too sharp to be controlled, too short to be a scream.
Shock hit before pain.
It always did.
The second knife was already in my hand.
I didn't stand. Didn't shift. I threw it from where I sat, the motion just as clean, just as precise.
