Part 3
Julian didn't flinch. He remained seated, a faint, predatory smirk curving his stubbled jaw as he lifted his glass to take another slow sip. This was the arena he had paid for; this was the blood sport he craved.
Helen's elbow caught Claire hard across the cheekbone, snapping her head back. Pain flared hot and white along Claire's temple, right beside her faint crescent scar, but she didn't retreat.
Instead, Claire grabbed Helen's hair, wrenching her twin down into the shadows between the fallen cedar table and the heavy sofa. "It's mine!" Claire yelled, loud enough to drown out any subtle rustle of clothing.
Helen's hand swung, deliberately swatting the heavy snub-nosed revolver. It skittered loudly across the polished floorboards, sliding six feet away under the edge of a heavy timber sideboard.
"Clumsy," Julian chuckled from his chair, his voice dripping with condescending delight. "Fight for it, ladies. Don't lose it under the furniture."
Down on the floor, rolled half beneath Helen's predatory weight, Claire slid her right hand into the deep pocket of her pleated wool trousers. Her fingers found the slender plastic barrel of the succinylcholine syringe she had palmed hours ago by the roadside gas pumps.
Helen had Claire pinned by the collar of her ivory cashmere sweater, baring her teeth, raising a clenched fist as if to smash Claire's face into the floor.
"Do it!" Claire screamed, arching her back violently to jostle Helen forward.
Under the cover of that desperate, thrashing heave, Claire brought the syringe up between their pressed torsos. She pressed the cold, smooth plastic cylinder firmly into the palm of Helen's left hand, which was braced against Claire's ribs.
Helen's fingers closed over the barrel instantly.
A microscopic pause rippled through Helen's body as her thumb brushed the plastic needle guard, confirming what she held. Her hazel eyes flickered down, meeting Claire's gaze with absolute, chilling clarity.
The paralytic was in play.
Without missing a beat, Helen drove an open palm against Claire's chest, throwing her off with brutal, theatrical force. Claire skidded backward against the base of Julian's armchair, coughing and clutching her throat as if she were suffocating on her own panic.
Helen rolled to her knees, breathing heavily, her loose espresso waves falling over her face. As she stood, she casually tucked her left hand into the sweeping pocket of her black leather trench coat, sliding the lethal dose safely out of sight.
Julian stood up, setting his empty glass down on the arm of his chair with a soft thud. He adjusted the cuff of his charcoal henley, glancing toward the shadows where the gun lay trapped beneath the sideboard.
"Disappointing," Julian said, his voice dropping into that chilling, clinical register that meant he was bored with the preliminaries. "All that fury, and neither of you could even hold onto the weapon."
He stepped forward, his tall, athletic frame towering over Claire where she lay curled on the rug.
"I suppose I'll have to finish this myself," Julian sighed, turning his back on Helen to retrieve the revolver.
The crystal lamp shattered against the cedar planking, plunging the master bedroom into pitch-black shadow punctuated only by the dim, bluish wash of the blizzard outside.
For half a heartbeat, the only sound was the furious battering of sleet against the balcony glass and the ragged breath of three people caught in a room that was suddenly far too small.
"That's enough," Julian's voice cut through the dark, silky and completely devoid of alarm. "Fun's over, girls. Give me the gun, and let's see which one of you is still standing."
He stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching over the shards of broken glass. He moved with the effortless confidence of a man who believed every variable was already tallied in his favor, expecting to find one weeping survivor kneeling over the corpse of her duplicate.
He never saw the low sweep of Claire's wool-clad leg until his shins struck the edge of the low oak bench.
Julian stumbled, letting out a sharp grunt of irritation. Before he could regain his center of gravity, a second force collided with his chest—lean, brutal, and propelled with the full velocity of Helen's desperate hatred.
He hit the timber floor with a concussive thud that rattled the brass fixtures on the wall.
Even in the dark, Julian was a trained athlete, six feet and two inches of hardened muscle and reflexive violence. He roared, throwing an elbow blindly into Helen's ribs, the impact tearing a ragged gasp from her throat.
His right fist swung wide, catching Claire along the cheekbone and snapping her head back. Pain flared white behind her eyes, hot and sharp, but it didn't slow her blood; it ignited it.
She didn't retreat. She lunged forward, throwing her entire weight onto his upper chest, her knees driving like iron wedges into the hollows beneath his collarbones.
[[AD]]
"Claire!" Julian hissed, his slate-blue eyes finally adjusting to the gloom as he recognized her pale face, her center-parted espresso hair framing the faint crescent scar on her temple. "You pathetic little bitch—get off me!"
He bucked violently beneath her, his powerful shoulders flexing to heave her off. His hands shot up, thick fingers locking around Claire's throat with crushing force, choking the air from her lungs.
Claire didn't scream. She didn't plead. She leaned into his grip, using her downforce to compress his ribcage while her fingers clawed into his wrists, prying at the brushed-steel band of his watch, holding him down with every ounce of leverage her body could muster.
