Chapter 9 MUSCLE MEMORY
"Die, you fucking demon!" The man yelled as he lunged towards me. The serrated blade flashed in the harsh light.
My mind screamed, but nothing came out of my mouth. I wanted to curl into a ball. I wanted to close my eyes and wait for the end.
That was what Elena would do, but for some reason, my body didn’t move…. It seemed to have other plans.
Before I could even process the movement, my ass slid back on the bed, and then I stood up, my legs bent in a combat position.
I pivoted on my heel in a smooth, practiced motion that felt as natural as breathing.
The knife whistled past my chest, catching only the fabric of my hospital gown.
I stared at my new body in shock. How did I do that?
The assassin didn't give me time to think. He snarled, his face twisted with rage, and swung the knife back in a horizontal slash.
He was fast, and he was strong. But to my eyes, he looked like he was moving through water. I could see the tension in his shoulder before he even moved his arm.
I ducked.
Instead of having a clumsy fall, I went into a precise, low crouch. I flinched as I felt the air from the blade pass over the top of my head. My hand shot out like a strike of lightning. I grabbed his wrist in a vise-like grip.
I did not just hold him. I squeezed hard. I felt the brittle shift of bone under my palm. I heard the satisfying pop of his joint as I twisted.
"Arrgh! You bitch!" he screamed in pain. He wrenched his hand free, dropping the knife onto the tiled floor with a loud clang.
He tried to punch me with his free hand. It was a wild, desperate swing.
Without flinching, I brought my elbow up. I blocked the blow with the hard bone of my forearm.
If it were the old me, the impact should have felt like my arm had shattered. But it did not even hurt. My arm felt like it was made of solid steel. The impact sent a jar through his shoulder instead of mine.
This isn't me, I thought. My heart was racing, but not with the fear of a victim. This is her. This is Sienna.
I pushed him back, creating space. I was shaking, but it was not from anxiety. It was the raw, electric power surging through my veins. It was the adrenaline of a predator.
The assassin scrambled to find his footing on the slick floor. He shifted the knife to his left hand. His right wrist was hanging limp and useless at his side.
"I am going to gut you like a pig," he hissed. He began to circle me, his eyes searching for an opening.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked. I needed to distract him. I looked toward the door, but the chair was still wedged firmly under the handle. "I don't even know who your fucking heir is, you bastard!"
I almost froze, surprised at how easily profanity was gliding off my tongue.
"Liar!" the man spat. "You lured the young master to betray his people. You made him turn away from his own father after years of being an obedient son. Our family is in ruins because of your greed, Siren."
He charged again. This time, he did not just slash. He came in with a series of quick, short stabs. He was trying to overwhelm me.
I began to weave. I moved my head inches to the left, then to the right. I stepped back, then forward. I was playing a dangerous game of tag, and I was winning.
Every time the knife came close, my body reacted with a grace that Elena Cruz Maddox never possessed. I felt light. I felt fast. But I was staying on the defensive. I was evading, not attacking. I was still thinking like a girl who was afraid of being hit.
I realized quickly that I could not keep this up. My lungs were beginning to burn. I was still recovering from a ten-month coma. My stamina was not ready for a long fight. If I did not end this now, he would catch me when I finally slipped up. And the man looked like he was not going to show me any mercy.
I looked at his throat. Then I looked down, following the way he held his weight on his front foot.
Sienna’s instincts were screaming at me to strike. I decided to stop fighting my own body. I decided to trust the killer I had become.
"My turn," I whispered.
I stopped backing away abruptly.
As he lunged forward for a final, desperate stab, I did not dodge. I stepped into his space.
At the last minute, my original instincts tried pushing through. My mind told me it was a clumsy move. I hesitated, and I nearly tripped over my own feet. The knife grazed my shoulder. I felt the sharp sting as it drew a thin line of blood.
The pain was sharp, but it cleared the last of the fog in my brain. "Stop thinking, Elena," I hissed to myself. "Just move."
The man pulled the knife back for another strike. I did not wait for him to find his rhythm. I drove my palm upward into his chin with a sickening crunch.
His head snapped back. He staggered away from me, his eyes rolling. He was disoriented.
Before he could recover, I stepped behind him. My arm wrapped around his neck like a coil of rope. I locked my other hand over my bicep, forming a tight, inescapable loop.
A rear-naked choke. My mind echoed the name. I knew exactly what it was. I knew how much pressure to apply. I had never been in a fight or practiced a day in my life, but my arms knew the exact angle to cut off the air.
"Get... off!" he wheezed. He clawed at my arm, his fingernails digging into my skin.
He tried to drive his elbow into my ribs. I tightened my grip. I tucked my head against his, hiding my face so he could not reach my eyes.
As I felt his pulse thumping frantically against my forearm, I did not feel pity. I did not feel horror at the man's suffering.
All I felt was a cold, soaring sense of adrenaline. I felt excitement.
"Sleep," I whispered into his ear.
He thrashed. In the process, he kicked over the bedside table. Water and medicine spilled across the floor, the glass shattering.
He was a strong man, but my body found a way to hold on. I anchored my weight, using my legs to keep us both upright.
I squeezed until the strength left his limbs. His scratching hands fell away. His body went limp against mine.
I did not let go immediately. I held him for a couple more seconds. I made sure he was out before I let the body slump to the floor.
I jumped, startled, as the hospital door flew off its hinges with a large bang. The chair went flying across the room and splintered against the wall.
Jax rushed in, a gun in his hand and fury in his eyes. He looked ready to kill anything that moved. Then he stopped dead when he saw me standing over the unconscious man.
My hospital gown was torn at the shoulder, a thin trail of blood running down my arm. My hair was a mess. But I wasn't shaking anymore.
I looked at Jax, the adrenaline still humming in my ears. I felt powerful… I felt new.
I felt more alive than I had ever felt in my old life.
A slow, dangerous smirk spread across my face. One, I didn't even try to hide it.
Jax stared at the man on the floor, then back at me, his eyes taking in the way I was standing.
Seeing the fire in my eyes, he slowly lowered his gun and let out a long, shaky breath.
A slow grin mirroring mine spread across his lips. Now, really... welcome back, Siren," he said, sounding impressed and very relieved.
I looked down at the assassin, then pushed his body away with my foot like he was nothing more than a piece of trash. I stood up straight, feeling refreshed.
I wasn't the fragile princess anymore. I wasn't the girl who let her husband shoot her. I wasn't the girl who begged for her life.
Elena wasn’t gone… But she was quieter now.
"Thank you, Jax," I replied in a raspy tone. My voice was steady and cold as I gave him a smirk. It feels so good to be back."