“Jesus, stop.” I swat his hands away and fumble with the straps myself.
He watches, something unreadable flickering in his eyes—then presses a handgun to my chest and grabs a rifle for himself.
“Take it.”
I glare. “I want a rifle.”
“You’ll take what I give you.” His jaw clenches as shouts echo in the hallway.
“My hands work better braced on a stock than wrapped around this toy.” I lift the pistol, wincing as my sore fingers strain against the grip. “You want me to be useful or not?”
For a second, I think he’ll snap my neck for questioning him. Then—abruptly—he grabs my hand, adjusting my grip with force. Pain shoots up my fingers and I flinch.
He freezes. Eyes flick down to where I’m wincing under his hold. The pause is brief, then he drops my hand and shoves a rifle into my chest.
“We are about to be under attack. You stay with me. You got that?” He steps closer.
“I—”
“I don’t care if the truck goes up in flames. If I’m bleeding out in a fucking ditch. If I’m dead on the floor—” His hand clamps over my face, spanning nearly my whole skull, forcing my eyes on him. “You donotleave my side.”
My throat goes dry.
“Arlo!”
“Okay,” I snap, anger and fear colliding in my chest. He stares at me one second longer—then we’re moving.
Down the hall, into the garage, the entire place crawling with men armed to the teeth. Every breath feels heavy—his hand never leaving the small of my back.
Raze, Wolff, and the others are there, loading up multiple armored trucks.
“What’s the plan?” I ask, trying to steady my voice as I look for Arsen.
Raze doesn’t look at me. “Kill as many of these fuckers as we can and get to another bunker.”
Priest shoves me toward a truck without a word. I stumble, catch myself, and climb in. We’re on the move before the door even shuts, tires screeching across pavement.
My heart’s hammering. Every bump in the road rattles through me. My fingers are stiff and sore, barely keeping a grip on the gun in my lap. I glance around the truck.
Everyone’s silent. Focused.
Priest and the others pull down black masks over their faces. When he notices me watching, he pauses just long enough to tug his down and meet my eyes.
“Breathe, kitten.”
I grit my teeth. “I’ll be fine.” I want to snap at him for continuing to call me kitten, but I keep my mouth shut. For now.
Silence settles again. Heavy breathing. Tense shoulders. The sound of rubber grinding over broken asphalt.
The radio crackles to life. “Five minutes out. Eyes up.”
The abandoned warehouse isdark and cold, the stench of gasoline and metal heavy in the air. Boots scrape over cracked concrete. Each breath fogs white in the freezing air.
We didn’t make it to the bunker. The Sovereigns cut off our retreat. Some of the trucks are en route to a safe location. They had a chance, but we didn’t.
Men slump against walls, bleeding into their clothes. Groans mix with curses, the smell of iron thick enough to taste.
“I didn’t give up the location!” Alistair, I think—shouts as Raze and Priest smash him against the wall. “Fuck you. I didn’t do it!”
