Larissa's Game of Thrones (Larissa) novel Chapter 743

The hitman, poised to strike Vivica, was startled by the woman who had just crashed through the window.

When did someone get out there? He didn't sense a thing!

Paxton was equally shocked. This meant there was now a variable, a complication in Vivica’s death.

In his script, his son Leopold was drugged into a deep sleep and wouldn't wake up. He could later claim that Larissa had done it.

But who was this woman? Was she here to save Vivica?

No, that's impossible… How would she even know Vivica was in danger?

“Kill her too!” Paxton barked, clutching his wound.

Leaning against the door, Vivica stared at her husband with pure hatred. His words—“Kill her too”—sent another shockwave through her.

Too. He meant her and this newcomer, this woman who had just burst in.

How ruthless! The man she had shared a bed with for thirty years truly wanted her dead.

Nightveil let out a short, sharp laugh, ignoring Paxton as she charged directly at the hitman, her knife held ready.

The hitman’s pupils contracted. Her trajectory was unconventional and blindingly fast, far exceeding his expectations. But he was a professional. His surprise was instantly replaced by combat instinct. He raised his combat knife to meet Nightveil’s incoming blade.

CLANG!

The piercing shriek of metal on metal echoed through the room. The force of the impact sent a numbing jolt up the hitman’s arm, his muscles tensing instantly.

Nightveil’s blade sliced across the outside of the hitman’s left arm at an impossibly sharp angle, tearing through the tough fabric of his tactical gear and leaving a shallow gash. The sharp pain and the sudden rush of blood made him falter.

In that split second, Nightveil exploited the opening. She seized the hitman’s knife-wielding wrist, her fingers digging into the pressure points as she twisted inward with brutal force.

A numbing sensation shot through the hitman’s wrist, and the combat knife he was gripping clattered to the floor.

Pain and terror ignited the hitman's primal survival instincts. Ignoring the agony in his wrist, he let out a guttural roar and swung his left fist at Nightveil’s temple.

It was his last, desperate counterattack.

But Nightveil had seen it coming. Her left hand, still clamped on his wrist, yanked down hard. She simultaneously swiveled her upper body, letting the potentially lethal punch whistle past her ear, the force of it ruffling her hair.

At the same time, the knife in her right hand struck, its pommel slamming viciously into the nape of his neck.