A muscle under my eye twitches as I lower the gun. Samuel’s body collapses at my feet with a dull, graceless thud, like a sack of potatoes tossed aside.
My body hums in response, a slow, delicious ache rolling through my limbs as the scent of iron curls into the air. Hot relief spills through me, and as always, my pulse quickens, my senses sharpen, and something in me comes alive with the power it brings.
This is who I am. There’s nothing inside me but slick, oozing blackness, no hint of light cutting through it. I’m no knight in shining armor, no noble man chasing a righteous cause.
I’m sick. And now that I finally accept it, I have never felt more alive.
“You fucking sick fuck.”
I lift my shoulders in a loose shrug and raise my eyes, meeting Jason’s terrified stare without blinking. “You left me no fucking choice,” I say, my voice disturbingly calm as I step over Samuel’s body. The gun is steady in my grip, steel buzzing with the pressure of my fingers, humming with the urge to rise and finish Jason the way I did Samuel.
Even though he deserves more than a clean death.
“What now, you’re gonna fucking kill me too?” he spits, finally jolting into motion. He yanks his own gun from his waistband, shock cracking into frantic adrenaline.
I shoot him in the hand before he can fully lift it. The sound explodes through the room, and the gun hits the floor with a metallic clatter, bouncing once before settling. Jason howls, grabbing at the wound as blood gushes between his fingers.
“Look at this,” I purr, closing the distance between us and grabbing his injured hand. In one sharp twist, bone snaps like brittle glass. The crack tears through the air, and he collapses to his knees with a strangled cry. “Can’t do your little tricks now that you’re useless?”
I seize his other hand and break it too, twisting until the bones give way with another sickening pop. He looks up at me through tears, his attempt to fight back pathetic, almost comical.
“That’s how this is gonna end?” he chokes, tears streaming down his face. “My men are after her. It’s only a matter of time?—”
“Before I hunt them down and do the same to them,” I cut in, wrapping my hand around his throat. “You made me do this, Jason. I wanted to let you walk away, but you chose to bite. This is what happens to fucking betrayers.” My grip tightens. “Now.Where is she?”
He swallows, throat working under my fingers, his face flushed from pain and panic. “She’s being dragged away for interrogation,” he rasps. “That’s all I’m gonna fucking tell you. In a few minutes, this place will be surrounded; you won’t have anywhere to run.” He lifts his eyes to mine, daring me.
“Too bad for you,” I begin, irritation scraping the edge of my voice, “I don’t have time for this shit.”
I twist, and his neck snaps with a violent, unnatural crack. Inhaling sharply, I look down at him, and even in death, there’s something in his eyes—some faint, irritating glimmer of hope.
It was too easy. Too fucking quick.
And something I should’ve done long before now.
The roar of engines outside yanks my attention away before relief can even settle, and the urgency claws up my spine, sharper by the second, driving me forward. I stride to the murky window, shove the curtain aside, and wipe a streak through the condensation. A pair of vans sits in the yard, dark silhouettes climbing out of them—shadowy figures dispersing into the rain.
Adrenaline floods me, immediate and electric. Leaning to the side, I scan the thick woods surrounding the place—until something tightens in my gut, pulling my focus back with brutal force.
I’m fast and skilled, but I’m not untouchable. The fresh cut burns like a brand, the stitches still raw, tugging with every movement. The more I push, the hotter my skin grows, glowingan angry red beneath the strain. Much as I’d love to pretend otherwise, I’m not a fucking invincible god.
Outside, flashlights flare to life—sharp cones of white slicing through the suffocating dark. My brows shoot up when Lucia steps into view ahead of them, her small frame swallowed almost entirely by the thickness of the woods.
I drop the curtain, heart pounding, and turn toward the drawer at the end of the table. Urgency drives me across the room before I yank it open, shove aside a stack of folders, then hook my fingers into the wood and pull harder.
The false panel gives way. A flat, metallic, coin-like key gleams up at me, catching the dim light like a shard of salvation.
A spark ignites—an idea so reckless, so unhinged it borders on suicidal. But if it gets me to Estella, then I’ll burn through the insanity without hesitation.
I sprint to the door, twist the lock tight from the inside, then grab the nearest chairs and jam them against it. Panic and adrenaline surge through my veins in equal measure. The wound in my gut screams, stitches pulling, some snapping loose beneath the strain. The pain ricochets through me in sharp, nauseating waves, barely dulled by the fading painkillers.
It’s harder with the injury, but not impossible.
Footsteps echo from every direction—shouts, coordination, the tightening ring of hunters closing in. It’s the kick I need. Once I’m sure the barricade will hold them for at least a few precious minutes, I sprint to the table, snatching up the threads and needles Samuel left behind after stitching me up. My gaze slides to the mattress I’d just crawled off—where a blood-slick knife lies half-hidden beneath crumpled napkins and torn, crimson-soaked bandages.
A heavy thud cracks against the door, sending a vicious tremor through the bunker. I roll up my sleeves, step toward themattress, and wrap my fingers around the knife, my eyes tracing the black-pink handle.
I’m coming, Estella.
