I shatter.
And in the pieces, I find myself.
Silas follows me seconds later, groaning deep in his chest, pouring himself into me, sealing the bond with everything he has.
He collapses on top of me, heavy and warm.
We lie there in the silence of the bunker. The only sound is our ragged breathing and the hum of the air filter.
I run my fingers through his damp hair. I trace the scar on his back.
My father is dead. The house is ruined. We are hiding underground like rats.
But as Silas lifts his head and kisses me softly on the lips, his eyes filled with a terrifying, absolute devotion...
I know one thing for certain.
I would rather be a rat in this bunker with him than a princess in a tower without him.
The corruption is complete.
I am his.
CHAPTER 20
THE KING OF ASHES
POV: SILAS
I wake to the smell of recycled air and the soft, rhythmic sound of Ivy’s breathing.
The bunker is a sensory deprivation tank. No sunlight penetrates the ten feet of reinforced concrete and lead above us. There is no sound of the ocean, no wind, no birds. Just the hum of the filtration system and the beating of two hearts that are still miraculously functioning.
I lie still for a moment, my arm heavy across Ivy’s waist, trapping her against my side.
She is deeply asleep. Her face is pressed into the crook of my neck, her breath warm against my skin. In the harsh fluorescent emergency lighting I left on low, she looks younger. The tension lines that have bracketed her mouth for days are smoothed out.
But she is not the same girl I brought to the Estate.
I look at her hand, resting on my chest. The fingernails are chipped. There is a faint smudge of gun oil on her knuckle that I didn't scrub off last night.
She killed a man.
The thought should disturb me. It should worry me that I have corrupted an innocent art student into a killer in less than a week. But as I trace the line of her spine with my callous fingers, I feel only a dark, swelling pride.
She didn't freeze. She didn't break. She squeezed the trigger.
She is no longer just a prisoner in my war. She is a soldier.
I carefully extract myself from her grip. She murmurs something unintelligible and reaches for my warmth, her hand grasping at the empty space where I was. I pull the duvet up to her chin, tucking her in.
"Sleep," I whisper, though she can't hear me. "You’ll need it."
I dress quickly in the semi-darkness. Fresh tactical pants, a black t-shirt, boots. I strap my holster to my thigh and check the load on my Glock. It’s a reflex. A prayer.
I walk out of the bedroom, sealing the door quietly behind me.
In the main area of the bunker, Luca is waiting.
