The Woman with the Scar (Costa Family)

Alara’s head shaking caught my attention drawing it back.

Having it, she jerked her head toward Berat, then nodded emphatically, her gaze sliding down to my bound arms.

Oh, right.

God, it was a little humbling when your baby sister was more level-headed in a life-or-death situation than you were.

Of course I had to agree.

If I agreed, maybe even swallowed my pride and begged to sign it so he would ‘let my sister go,’ then he had to remove my bound wrists.

Both of them, since they’d used tape to bind us.

And with the other two gone, it would just be me against Berat.

Yes, he was bigger and likely stronger.

But I had my seething fucking anger. And my desire to get my little sister out of this mess alive.

Motivation was a powerful factor in a fight. It made warriors out of common men and women.

I gave Alara a nod, letting her know I understood, then let my gaze move around, trying to find the closest and best weapon.

Even if all I could do was knock him unconscious long enough to free my sister and for the two of us to run out onto the street, scream for help.

There wasn’t much close.

A laptop near the edge of the table. A couple pens. Closer to Alara, there was a pair of pretty sturdy-looking scissors, though, if I thought I could stomach stabbing someone.

And, of course, there was the very chair I was sitting on.

Metal. Sturdy.

And the idiots hadn’t bound either of our legs.

So once my arms were free, I could just… stand. Then grab the chair and swing.

From there, I had the whole room full of potential weapons at my disposal.

In fact, someone on the construction crew had even left a small pile of tools only a dozen or so feet away.

“There it is,” Berat said, drawing my attention away from the tools and back to him, finding him holding a stack of paperwork. “You’re going to sign this,” he said as he moved back around the desk toward us.

I couldn’t just immediately agree.

I had to put on a show.

So I shook my head at him.

“Oh, yes, you are,” Berat said, producing his gun. “You are going to sign it, or I am going to put a bullet in your little sister’s pretty head,” he said, moving toward her, and pushing the gun to her forehead.

All credit to Alara, she didn’t even flinch.

But it was time for me to pretend to react. And, really, it wasn’t even all acting. I desperately yanked against my chair, my gaze going from the papers then back down toward where my arms were attached to the chair.

“I thought that might change your mind,” he said, nodding as he tucked his gun away, then set the papers on the table.

Seemingly oblivious to the idea that a woman could pose any sort of threat to him, he moved behind me, making short work of getting me free not only from the chair, but the duct tape entirely.

I waited until he stood again, intent on retrieving his papers, before I flew off the chair on the opposite side, putting it between us as I yanked it up off the floor.

“Don’t be stup—“ Berat started to object, already reaching for his gun.

But I was faster, planting my legs wide, whipping back the chair, then swinging with every ounce of strength in my body.

The crack bounced back off the walls in the mostly-empty space, a sound that shouldn’t have been as satisfying as it was as I watched Berat almost comically stumble and fall over the table.

I didn’t hesitate.

I turned, ran, and grabbed the handle of the hammer from the pile of tools, and flew back at him.

I was swinging before I even fully wrapped my head around the reality of what I was doing.

All I knew was he had a gun. And I was the only thing standing between him and killing my sister.

It wasn’t just that, though.

It was all of it.

Especially knowing it had been Berat and Deniz behind most of the suffering of my family, that Eren had just been a puppet that they had their hands up inside.

All my parents’ stress, all the uncertainty, the times we went without, my forced marriage, the suffering I’d endured at the hands of Eren, it all came to head right then.

Because, for the first time, I was the one with the power, the one who could control the outcome.

And I couldn’t see a single outcome where Berat deserved to live.

So I swung.

And swung and swung.

Taking years of fear and pain and helplessness out on Berat’s body that had gone still after the third blow to the head.

But not even that stopped me.

I was blind in my rage as I swung the hammer into his face until the bones broke, until the blood and brain matter flew out.