"Don't stare like that—I'm rescuing you," I hiss, ripping the waist sash free with one clean tug. A hand reached for me. I countered with an elbow under the chin and a palm to the throat before the man could register the pain. He folded like a puppet with its strings cut. "Oi! Guards!" one of them shouted, voice thick with wine and certainty. "Shut up," I said. I shoved my thumb against the soft spot beneath his ear. He slumped, breathing shallow, eyes glassy. Four of them. Too close to the bridal room. Too loud for the night. "You're going to regret this," the second growled and lunged. I hooked a heel, spun, and drove the heel of my hand into his sternum. He went backward, grabbed the stone bench, and tasted it. "That's not even my threat list," I told him. I stripped my sleeve at a practiced speed and palmed a thin steel pin. Small things win fights. Needles won fights. Pain answered faster than talk. "You're bleeding!" the lecherous one at the corner laughed as he fumbled for her sash. "Yes. From not being polite to men who assault brides," I said. Then I jabbed a finger at his knee and the world sped up for him. He fell, convulsing on the moonlit gravel. "You killed him," the third accused. "You were finishing him," I corrected as I twisted a wrist and forced him face-first into a planter. He