I didn't register the punch until I heard the crunch. Not the satisfying kind either—the kind that sings to some old, primal part of you and makes your shoulder sting after. The kind that echoes.
Director Connor's head snapped to the side, slamming into the brass wall of the corridor. Blood smeared against the velvet trim. He stumbled but didn't fall. So I gave him another.
And another.
A snarl ripped from my throat as I threw him against the window, his comm shattering under the force. He grunted, a wheezing sound slipping past gritted teeth. His eyes flashed with something between shock and awe.
"You think I forgot?" I hissed. "Think I moved on?"
I slammed him again.
"She begged, Connor. She begged you. And you didn't even have the decency to lie to her!"
He kicked back—clipped my shin, knocked me off balance. We grappled in the narrow hallway like animals locked in a cage. His elbow found my ribs; my knee found his stomach. A dance choreographed by fury.
