Cillian turns, catches my chin in his hand. “Stay with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He doesn’t smile this time. He just pulls me close, wraps an arm around my waist, and pushes through the chaos—Rouge covering us, gun still hot, as they carve a path toward the exit. He doesn’t smile this time. He just pulls me close, one arm locking around my waist as the other draws his gun.
Rouge covers us, his voice sharp through the chaos. “Go! I’ve got you—move!”
We push through the screaming, through the chaos of shattered crystal and overturned tables. The floor is slick beneath my heels, the air full of shouting and gunfire. My pulse thrums against the locket at my throat, that small, golden heartbeat keeping time with my own.
Cillian kicks open the side door. The hallway beyond is dim, narrow, echoing with the sound of running feet and distant alarms. “Stay low,” he orders, voice rough, breathless.
Rouge turns, firing once more into the ballroom before following. The door slams shut behind us, sealing off the light, the music, the blood.
We don’t stop moving. And for one suspended heartbeat, as we disappear down the corridor, I can still hear the last note of the Prelude ringing somewhere behind us— soft, ghostly, defiant.
1.You’re still crying for me.
2.His heart, his fate.
3.My love, you made them all worship you, and they don’t even understand why.
