The knife bit slightly into Lyra’s neck as the man’s hand shook.
She tried to keep her breathing small and measured, but she could feel her pulse throbbing against the blade as a thin line of crimson welled beneath it. Nesrin’s eyes fixated on Sorev, but Tarek couldn’t pull his eyes away from the blood trailing down Lyra’s neck.
Lyra tried to think back to those lessons she told Nesrin she’d ignored in her youth. She took in the pressure of his forearm, the way he gripped her to him. As she calculated how much of his body was exposed and her ability to capitalize on it, there wasn’t much.
Not enough.
Tarek’s face had gone white as a sheet. “Master Sorev,” his voice was low and placating, “don’t do this.”
“Do not call me that.” The words snapped out of him with real venom. “You lit
