The pause between them ran too long.
Raven clocked it before her brain caught up, the air thickening, the room holding its breath. The document still lay open. The card sat untouched. Seven killers watched from the edges like statues.
She didn't think. Thinking would've killed her chance.
The knife moved.
Fast, no warning, no shoulder tensing, pure muscle memory driving the blade straight for the same line under Vincent's jaw she'd marked earlier. Her body followed like it was chained to the steel, hip slamming into the table edge, chips scattering everywhere in a loud plastic clatter.
The blade cut air.
Vincent's chair slid back a fraction, barely enough. The knife missed his throat by a hair. Close enough she smelled his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of dried blood on his skin.
His fingers snapped up. Two of them pressed lightly against the inside of her forearm, redirecting her strike like it was nothing.
Rage exploded in her chest.
She twisted her wrist hard, turning the missed cut into a low stab toward his ribs. Shoulder driving forward. She crashed closer, knocking a chair over with a sharp scrape. She drove her feet into the carpet as she tried to pin him against the table.
He stepped into her instead.
His hand closed around her wrist, not crushing, but exact. He turned her arm outward at the precise point where her leverage snapped. The blade stopped dead, a breath away from his side.
Raven snarled under her breath. She pivoted on her heel, trying to use his own control against him, rotating her whole body to swing the knife back up toward his neck.
He moved with her. Steady. Exact. Pressed down.
Her wrist slammed into the table. Hard.
The knife cracked against the wood with a metallic clang. Pain shot up her arm. Chips flew. One cut her cheek. She barely felt it.
Her free hand shot up, fingers clawing for his throat.
He turned his head just enough. The tip of her blade caught the edge of his temple as the strike slid past, a shallow cut, clean and hot. Blood welled immediately, thin and fast. Her balance tipped forward. For one stupid half-second she was too close, too committed.
Vincent used it.
His grip moved. He pinned her wrist flat to the table through angle alone, body positioned so she had zero room to reset. She yanked hard. Nothing. She tried to twist again. The table held her. His stance cut off every escape line.
Her breath came in short, angry bursts. Her chest thundered with it — fury, shame, and a heat low in her belly she didn't want to name when she realized how easily he was handling her.
The scattered chips clicked and rolled across the felt, some bouncing onto the floor in dull taps. The overturned chair lay on its side like a broken promise.
For a moment everything froze.
The fight wasn't over. He had simply contained it.
Vincent looked straight at her. Not at the knife. Not at her pinned wrist. At her.
"That was attempt number one."
His voice stayed low and steady. Like they were still having a polite conversation. Like he hadn't just dismantled her in three seconds.
"You should save the rest for later."
Humiliation burned through her veins hotter than any punch ever could. His calm scraped raw every nerve she had.
Her fingers tightened on the knife anyway. Testing. Defiant.
He registered it.
Then he let go.
No warning. One second her wrist was trapped. The next it wasn't.
Raven snapped her arm back, knife coming free in the same motion. She stumbled half a step away, chest heaving, blade rising again in a clean line. Ready for round two.
She didn't strike. The space between them opened up again, and she held it.
Vincent didn't chase. Didn't press the advantage. He simply lowered his hand and stood there like nothing had happened. Posture relaxed. Blood still dried on his throat like a trophy he refused to acknowledge.
Behind her, the room had woken up.
Gabriel's weight had pressed forward, ready to crush. Lucian's eyes narrowed, tracking every twitch. Dante had taken one heavy step closer, fists clenched like he was dying to jump in. Sebastian had frozen mid-motion, all fake boredom gone. Matteo was calculating angles in his head. And Leonid — Leonid had moved the closest, silent and deadly, one foot planted like he was ready to end her life the second Vincent gave the word.
Now they all settled back. Dante let out a long breath through his nose. Gabriel's shoulders dropped a fraction. Leonid pulled his foot back half an inch, tension bleeding out.
The guardians reset.
Raven didn't look at them. Her eyes stayed locked on Vincent, chest still rising and falling fast. Sweat stung the cut on her cheek. The knife felt different in her grip now. Not from weight. From knowing.
Vincent tilted his head, studying her with that quiet, unshakable interest.
Then he reached forward. Slow and unhurried. Toward the knife in her hand.
Her grip tightened. The blade angled up, ready to cut if he tried to take it.
He stopped just short of touching her. Didn't grab. Didn't force.
He waited.
The choice hung in the air between them — thick, heavy, suffocating.
Blood pounded in her ears. Part of her wanted to drive the blade into his chest right now. Another part — the sick, traitorous part — felt a strange pull at how easily he could have taken it and didn't. How he was giving it back like he trusted her not to be stupid again.
Her fingers loosened.
Vincent took the knife. Smooth. Controlled. He turned it once in his hand, testing the balance the same way she had earlier. Then he placed it back into her palm. Handle first.
His fingers brushed hers for a second. Warm. Steady. Gone before she could react.
He stepped back, restoring the distance like nothing had changed.
Raven stood there, knife back in her hand, breathing hard. The document was creased where her hand had slammed into it. Chips lay scattered everywhere. The card still sat untouched in the middle of the table.
She had lost before. Every fighter did eventually.
But she had never been handled so cleanly. Never been taken apart without him raising his voice or breaking a sweat. He hadn't beaten her with force. He had removed her from the equation. Like she was a problem he had already solved.
The knife felt heavier in her grip. The humiliation burned deep. But underneath it, low in her belly, something heat-edged and wrong curled up alongside the rage, confusion and a pull she had no name for and a dangerous curiosity about the man who could disarm her so easily and then hand the weapon back like an invitation.
Vincent turned his attention back to the document like the last thirty seconds had been nothing more than a minor interruption.
"Continue," he said.
Raven's fingers tightened around the knife until her knuckles went white.
She didn't sit down. Didn't attack again. Didn't run.
She stood there across from him, blade raised, blood loud in her ears, skin damp with sweat, and felt the shape of what she was walking into settle around her like a second skin.
She held the knife steady and waited.