“Explain to me,” Catcher continues, still moving forward, “why anyone else would bother to try to stop me if I killed you. Explain to me why I should care anything about you at all. Do you really think you mean anything to them? Do you really think that given the choice between me and you, they’d choose you?”

Catcher’s now standing inches from Conall, staring at him through the top of his eyes like an animal hunting its prey. The Recruiter has no weapon, no way to defend himself but still he curls his hands into fists.

“You saw what happened when one of yours killed one of ours,” Conall retorts. “You know Ox always sides with his men. He’ll side with me.”

Catcher snarls. I can see the wrath written in every part of him.

“Catcher,” I say softly, as a warning, not wanting him to do anything he’d regret later.

“This is the woman I love,” he says, raising his machete to point at me. “She is my life, and when you harm her you harm me.” His breath is loud and I can see the way he fights to control himself.

“Catcher,” I say again, trying to tether him to my voice. Trying to get him to step outside of the anger that’s clouding his judgment. Trying to make him understand what he’s doing—that this would be murder.

And then Catcher’s shoulders relax, just a little. But Conall must notice this too and think he’s safe because he cracks a small smile. “This is our world now,” he says. “You should get used to it.”

Catcher stares at him. “No it’s not,” he says sadly. “You don’t deserve Annah’s mercy and you won’t have mine.” The muscles on his arm jump as he swings the machete at Conall’s throat. The blade’s sharp and the cut is clean, severing his arteries, windpipe and spine. I scream and cover my face with my hands, looking away too late.

I’m standing like that, eyes squeezed shut with the feel of the dead Recruiter’s blood on my exposed skin, when Catcher unlatches the gate and wraps his arms around me. He pulls me away and it’s not until we’re outside the cage that I look up and see Dove still sitting by her husband.

She struggles to stand but is unsteady, one leg giving way so that she falls back to her knees. She holds a hand out to me.

I catch my breath.

“Annah, please,” she says, her voice so hoarse it’s more like a whisper. “Please don’t leave me here. Not like this.”