He didn't stop. He walked faster.
"Ms. Morrigan, bear with it," he said, like my pain was a minor inconvenience. "This isn't the time. If we stop now, we're both dead."
Something was wrong. The certainty settled in my chest like cold water before the reasoning even caught up. He didn't care whether I lived or died — he was in a rush to deliver me somewhere, to hand me off like cargo. The man on the floor back there wasn't the traitor. This man was. A plant, sent by that woman to get me onto a ship while Sergio was gone, while I was too broken by pain to think or fight.
He had almost succeeded.
Sweat poured down my face as another contraction ripped through me. I let myself groan, let my body go limp against him — not entirely pretending — and quietly worked the knife from my sleeve into my palm. To him, I was just a woman about to give birth. His eyes were fixed on the path ahead. He wasn't watching my hands.
He didn't see it coming when I drove the blade into his chest.
