//CLARA//
My stomach violently heaved.
A sour, hot rush of bile flooded the back of my throat, and I had to forcefully swallow it down, my teeth biting into my own knuckles until I tasted copper.
I pressed my spine so hard against the brick that the mortar dug through my coat.
Don't breathe, I told myself, the words a frantic loop of white noise in my head. Do not make a single sound. If you throw up right now, you are dead.
A sickening thud echoed, followed immediately by a sharp crack that sounded like a piece of timber snapping under a boot. Only it wasn't timber. It was the distinct sound of a leather-gloved fist smashing into a jaw.
Bartholomew let out a choked, gurgling shriek, his head whipping violently to the side as a spray of fresh crimson spattered across the stone floorboards.
Casimir rolled his shoulders, shaking out the tension and flexing his gloved fingers. "That was satisfying."
