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"Manon!"

Février is out of the chair. The cane goes down, the tobacco tin hits the carpet and rolls, and ninety-odd years of a man who probably hasn't done a push-up since the Eisenhower administration somehow flies across the room at her.

"Mais ça va pas la tête?"

That one I get. Rightly so, he's asking her if she's lost her mind. Fucking hell, I have the same question. This woman is straight up crazy.

Did I say I like it?

Damn.

She doesn't step back. Rather, she turns and gives him her whole face. The audacity. And she answers in a rainfall of French, fast and low, of which I catch one word in five or ten. Something about her father, and gamine, which I know means little girl because I've heard Henri use it with her once and have thought about it since. Did she just say she'd bury her father over this?

Maybe I heard wrong but I don't think so. Whatever she says, the old man goes white.

"Ça va le tuer!" he says.

He's right. I could very well die from this. She did hit a good spot, my beautiful, beautiful, clever Manon. Almost perfect aim, depending on whether she wanted to kill me or just maim me. As I said, I’m sure it’s the latter.

"Tant mieux."

Good, huh. Maybe she really does want me dead. She just admitted it. My cock hurts now. Motherfucker needs to take a back seat. I'd tell it off and take it down a peg or two if we weren't in such good company. If she weren't here, alive and breathing and, well, existing right before my eyes.

She just had this seasoned shark of a man go pale under her gaze.

I want to lay her on the carpet. I want to know what the inside of her mouth tastes like when she's this angry. I want everyone out and the door locked and about four hours.

Make that twenty-four.

A week.

God have mercy on me. I've got a scalpel in my shoulder and my shirt is sticking to my skin all down the left side. This is the best I have ever felt with my clothes on.

Rafe is at my elbow, hand hovering, not daring to touch.

"Boss—"

"You asked me a couple of weeks ago why I'd marry a Valmont." I drop my voice so only he can hear it. "That's why, Rafe. Her. I've wanted her for years, long before tonight, long before any of this. That's the answer to your question."

Then, all the fight drains out of her at once. She goes quiet and deflated, like it's only now catching up with her, what she just did. The blade now hurts like a motherfucker, too. I've never seen her look like this. Not angry any more. Just thrown.

"Oh God." It’s definitely hitting her. "Oh God, oh God⁠—"

And then she's running at me.

"Don't touch it. Nobody touch it—don't." She's got my collar open with both hands, and her fingers are freezing. "Laszlo. Look at me. Can you feel my hand?"

"Yes."

"Squeeze. Harder. Again." She isn't looking at my face now, but through my shoulder at something only she can see. "Radial's fine. It's fine. It's in muscle. It's just muscle⁠—"

Manon Valmont has stopped talking to me and started reassuring the person who did it—herself.

"You." She doesn't turn around. "Yes, you, by the door. Downstairs, the prep room, past the fire door, on the left. Bring me the whole suture cart, everything on it, don't tidy it. I know there’s one. If there's lidocaine down there, bring that too. Go."

Daniel, who has never taken an order from anybody in this house except from me, goes to do her bidding looking like a scalded cat.

"You," she says to Rafe. "Get that thing out of your hand."