I looked at Drake—still alive but unconscious, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic gasps.
The stumps of his wrists were charred black where I'd sealed them with the glowing knife, blood no longer pumping in thick jets but still oozing sluggishly into the dark pool beneath him. His face was ashen, lips blue-tinged, shock and pain carving deep lines into his features even in oblivion.
I turned to Lisa—voice flat, final, carrying across the blood-scented cave.
"Throw him out," I said. "Somewhere deep in the jungle. Let the animals have what's left of him."
Lisa nodded once—already stepping forward, muscles flexing as she bent to grab his ankles.
Camilla lunged—desperate, hysterical—throwing her half-naked body between us, bare tits bouncing wildly as she scrambled on her knees through the cooling blood.
