I drove my knee up into his groin with every ounce of strength I had.
He made a sound like a deflating balloon. His grip loosened.
I slammed my palm into his nose, felt cartilage crunch, felt hot blood spray across my fingers, and then I was running again before his body hit the floor.
The corridor split ahead.
Left or right?
Left.
I went left.
The music roared through the speakers—guitars wailing, drums crashing, Axl's voice howling about knees and bleeding.
My lungs burned. My thighs were slick with arousal and sweat.
Another hand—this time from behind, fingers tangling in my braids—yanked my head back.
Pain exploded across my scalp.
"I'VE GOT THE QUEEN!" A woman shrilled. "I'VE GOT THE QUEEN!"
I twisted in her grip and raked my nails down her face. I felt her skin tear, felt the wet heat of blood, heard her scream.
Oh God.
She let go.
I ran.
Faster now.
Desperate.
The corridor stretched ahead of me.
Endless.
Identical.
Door, after door, after door.
And I didn't know where I was going, didn't know if there was an exit, didn't know anything except that I had to keep moving.
You've got this. You've got this. Keep going. Keep—
The speakers crackled.
The music cut out.
And then Rook’s voice filled the corridor, warm, amused, and everywhere at once. "It's useless, Beloved."
I stumbled but kept running.
"Don't tire yourself out." A low, dark chuckle came over the speakers next. "There will be other ways to burn that energy."
No.
