Scarlett’s hand fumbled across the dark room until her fingers closed around a knife. Her pulse thundered. No morphine. No surgeon. Just her and the blade. Her breath came ragged as she angled the steel against her own shoulder. Her hand shook once, then steadied. She drove the blade in.
A muffled cry tore from her throat. Tears stung her eyes, blurred her sight. She dug until the sharp clink of metal hit the floor—the bullet, rolling uselessly away.
Her vision went black at the edges, threatening to drag her under. She forced herself to look at the moonlight slicing through the window bars, something—anything—to anchor her mind away from the agony.
The moon was beautiful. But she knew she would never see it again through a scope. A sob escaped her. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking against the wall.
The Night Owl—once a top-ranked sniper—had lost the very thing she most prided herself on in a single violent sweep. And the man who had done it walked away, believing he was being merciful.