Time seemed to contract. Sarah drew the blade in a single, unbroken movement, stepped forward, and drove it down with the full force of her body, aiming for the hollow between his collarbone and neck.
Her hand trembled slightly at the apex of the strike, and the point struck his right shoulder blade instead, piercing through muscle and grating heavily against bone.
Thornwood let out a strangled roar of pain and shock. He surged upward with such violence that his heavy chair crashed backward into the bookcase. Blood quickly soaked through the fine linen of his shirt, his right arm dangling limp. But the wound was not immediately fatal; he remained conscious and powerful.
“You!” he choked out, his pale eyes wild with disbelief. “You dare—”
He lunged with his uninjured left arm, fingers reaching for her throat. Sarah did not hesitate. The accumulated agony of six months of systematic torture broke through her reserve in an explosion of desperate fury. She wrenched the blade free from his shoulder and struck again. Thornwood raised his forearm to shield his face; the blade sank deep into his arm, slicing through muscle and tendon.
He crashed into her, driving her back against the bookshelves. His left hand locked around her windpipe, pinning her with desperate strength. The air left her lungs; black edges encroached upon her vision. She realized that despite her preparation, she was losing.
