When she didn't feel her gun hit anything, she knew she was in trouble. He pried her weapon away from her with a practiced ease and she watched as he gave it a toss to the side. Helen half-expected it to go off as it hit the ground, but it didn't and she kept her gaze fixed on John. If looks could kill, hers might just.

Her arms were pinned and the wall shuddered as her back hit it, dislodging some of the dust at the top to rain down on them like a fine white mist of sorrow. This was what they'd been driven to. This was what their relationship had crumbled into. She hated it, hated remembering what they'd once had, hated seeing his face and being reminded in such a terrible way of the heartache she'd suffered over a century ago. Resentment bubbled up inside her every time she was faced with his murderous intentions, knowing there was nothing she could do to save him and yet wanting nothing other than to do just that. She knew a kind, gentle, and truly sweet man resided inside John's heart and she couldn't tell if it was his refusal to allow that to show or his persistence in reminding her that he wasn't the same person that hurt the most. Either way, emotional pain tinged the anger and loathing in her eyes. Regret.

Regret that she couldn't shoot him now. She twisted her body under his grip, attempting to either force his body away with hers or get one of her legs up in a position where she could knee him somewhere painful or kick him.

"What do you want, John?" she asked, her voice tight with anger. Whatever game he thought he was playing, she wanted no part of it.