A snort buzzes in my ear. "Adorable. A vampire preaching restraint. What a century."
I ignore him. The ballroom's a war zone. Civility gone in seconds, animal panic surfacing. I've seen it before—civilization is paper-thin.
A man grabs a knife from a table. He lunges for a musician's back. I cross the distance in a blur and drop him with one hit, catch his head before it hits marble. Lay him down gently. Another, then another. Controlled, efficient force.
The alarm's a cover. There's no fire. Only chaos.
Outside, the night's full of sirens and confusion. Police are restraining guests, firefighters herd people into groups. Through the haze, I catch sight of the púca. He's still working, dropping one of Sage's thralls with quick precision.
At some point, I see Tomas and then Astrid, doing the same. Still with us, fighting the chaos, saving people.
Kayden appears from the exit, Sage limp in his arms. Darius is waiting by the car, tux still immaculate, fury barely hidden.
I start toward them, but movement on my periphery freezes me. A security guard. Eyes glassy, weapon raised.
Gunfire cracks. Screams. Someone drops.
I move. Not full speed, not here. Two bullets hit me before I get to him. I take him down, disarm, press him to the ground until the police swarm in.
The civilians he shot aren't getting up.
"Damn it," I breathe.
"Get to the car, Ash," Kayden's voice comes through comms, frantic and ragged.
The púca's voice cuts in next. "Got the parents. They're secured."
"Keep them contained," Darius replies.
"Yes, boss," the púca answers.
I slip through the chaos and into the van. Sage lies on the seats, her hair tangled, lips pale. The darkness has quieted around her. Without the cruel smirk, she looks like herself. Our Sage.Mine.
"I have a safe house nearby," Darius says from the front seat.
Kayden laughs under his breath bitterly. "Yeah, sure. Let's put her in a lab like some case study."
"She needs somewhere familiar," I add. "Home."
Darius hesitates. Nods. "Then I hope you have restraints, because what comes next won't be a pretty domestic sight."
Kayden brushes her hair back. "Pretty's the last thing I care about."
I press a hand to my side, feel the two fresh wounds, the ache under them. I look at her again, beautiful and wrong and ours.
Catching her was survival. Getting her back… that's war.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Kayden
The gathering at the house feels like a goddamn joke.
All of us, bruised, burned, barely stitched together, milling around in torn tuxes and cocktail gowns like it's a fucking wine mixer. The satyr's standing behind an armchair, his púca lackey's perched on it, fingers flying across a laptop like he's hacking into the Matrix. Around the room: the valkyrie, the druid, Jace, Donna, Tomas, and of course, us—the two Darrows. The wrecking crew.
Oh, and let's not forget the part where our wife is chained in the cellar like a monster out of myth.
I don't even bother with a glass, just uncork the scotch and take a long swig straight from the bottle, the burn matching the one in my throat. I loosen my tie, roll my shoulders. It's all too damn quiet. The kind of quiet that settles after chaos, when you don't know what to do with your hands because the battle is over, but the wreckage is still hot and smoldering.
