We run. Or rather, I stagger and he drags. Every time I want to stop, he propels me forward, barking my name, cursing in three languages. When the chapel is in sight, he shoves me through the side door, slamming it behind us.
He doesn’t lock it. He leans against it, face gone bone-white, and I realize for the first time that he’s actually hurt.
“Your arm,” I say, uselessly.
He barks a laugh. “You should see the other guy.”
There’s a thump against the door. Then another, heavier. I see the handle twist, the hinges flexing with each impact.
He pushes me to the front, to the altar, and says, “Stay low.” Then he turns, braces himself, and waits for the door to give.
I crouch behind the altar rail, pressing my cut side to the cold stone, trying to hold in the blood. I count the seconds, count the hits against the door, count the number of times my heart can break and keep beating anyway.
The door gives with a shriek of metal. The first one in is smaller, faster. Bam lets him close the gap, then steps aside and slams the door shut behind him, trapping the man inside with us. The move is so fast, so clean, I almost miss the follow-up: Bam grabs him by the collar, drags him across the floor, and smashes his face into the marble, once, twice, until the man stops moving.
Another enters, firing wildly. Bam ducks behind a pillar, grabs a broken pew leg, and hurls it like a javelin. It hits the man in the sternum and he goes down, gasping. Bam is on him in two seconds, twisting the gun away, then breaking the shooter’s elbow with a single brutal movement.
I watch unable to look away.
The fight is quick, ugly, and final. When it’s done, there are two more bodies on the floor, and Bam is standing over them, breathing hard, blood painting his arms and face.
He turns to me, eyes black as midnight. “You okay?”
I nod, because it’s the only thing I can do.
He crosses the space in three strides, drops to his knees in front of me. He rips the hem of my shirt, ties it around my ribs, then cups my face with his ruined hands.
“You’re safe,” he says, voice rough.
I believe him. Even though I know it’s a lie.
He pulls away first, wipes a streak of someone else’s blood from my cheek, and says, “You have to go.”
I shake my head. “You’re hurt—”
He laughs, almost gentle. “You know what I do for fun, princess? I walk off worse than this before breakfast. But you—” He looks down at the cut on my ribs, the way my knees won’t stop shaking. “You need to move. Now. They’re tracking you and I’m going to hold them back.”
I try to argue, to stall, but it’s a losing battle. He drags me to the chapel’s side door, listens for a heartbeat, then cracks it open.
He peeks out, then turns back, eyes cold and flat. “If you see anyone, anyone at all, you scream. If you hear shooting, you keep your head down. Got it?”
I nod. My teeth are chattering, but not from the cold.
He kisses me once, hard, as if it’s the last time. Then he pushes me out the door and into the darkness.
The campus is a war zone. I sprint through the wet grass, bare feet biting on every rock and splinter, knees nearly buckling with each step.
Hollering distracts me and I look behind me, seeing Bam shooting into the woods in the chapel door.
The shooter doesn’t slow, but Bam doesn’t either. He zigzags, a wild animal on instinct, dodging three rounds that shatter the pavement beside him, then closes the gap with inhuman speed. He shoulder-checks the man, knocking him flat, then stomps on the guy’s hand until the gun skitters into the grass.
I want to watch forever. I want to memorize every move, because if I survive tonight, I will never see anything more beautiful than this: Bam, covered in blood, grinning like a maniac, destroying anything stupid enough to threaten me.
But I have to run.
I cut through the quad, every step a fresh slice of hell as glass and gravel rip into my soles. My breath comes in wet gasps. The taste of copper floods my mouth.
Behind me, I hear more gunshots, closer this time. The sound bounces off the old stone walls and the Academy buildings, making it impossible to know which way the bullets are coming from.
