I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
My brain has fully blue-screened.
Another body dives under the table. A knee slams into my fingers, crushing them.
“Ouch!” I hiss, yanking my hand back.
Marco.
He’s leaning against me. Cowering. I shove him hard. “Move over.”
He glances down, like he’s just now noticing me. “Oh. Sorry.” He shuffles on his knees farther under the cover of the table.
He sees the gun in Damian’s hand. “Know how to use that?” Marco grunts.
Damiannods. “I used to go to the firing range, although—uh, it’s been a while.” He hesitates, then says more confidently, “I was pretty good, though, so yeah. I know how to use it.”
Marco lets out a shaky breath.
Damian turns his head and lands a glare on Marco. His eyes are cold. “If you think I’m killing someone to protectyou,” he says evenly, “you’re out of your fucking mind.”
My pulse stutters.
Marco swallows, so loudly I can hear it.
“My only goal,” Damian continues, voice low and deadly calm, “is gettingherout of here.”
He gestures toward me.
To my absolute horror, he lifts the gun and presses it right to Marco’s forehead.
Marco freezes. Hands shoot up. He doesn’t even breathe.
“You,” Damian says quietly, “I’d kill. For dragging her into this. For putting Hannah at risk.”
Marco’s voice cracks. “Hey—hey, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t know they’d come here tonight. I swear.”
Damian’s trigger finger tightens.
Marco whimpers.
And then—
“Damian.”
My voice is small. Hoarse. Still wrecked from the reaction, from the vomiting, from the terror lodged in my chest.
But it’s enough. His head snaps toward me instantly. Not sharp. Not angry.
Worried.
“What?” he whispers, urgency threading through the word.
I reach out and grab the sleeve of his jacket, my fingers curling into the fabric like it’s a lifeline. Likeheis.
“You’re scaring me,” I say softly. Not accusing. Just honest. “Please don’t do that.”
