I stand just as the side door creaks open again.
Killian saunters in, knife dangling from his fingers, still wearing that sick, dreamy smile. The knife isn’t for show — its edge glimmers, wet and sharp. He’s barely two steps in before he freezes, head cocking as he realizes I’m no longer tied.
His smile falters, but only for a split second.
“Well,” he says, voice almost admiring. “That was unexpected. Not unwelcome, but unexpected.”
“Yeah,” I croak, holding my broken wrist behind my back. “Got a few surprises left.”
He lunges — fast, low, veteran’s muscle memory. The blade is aimed at my gut. I twist away, but not fast enough. The tip slices me just above the hip, and hot blood instantly soaks my shirt. I grunt and grab the nearest thing I can — the chair I was bound to — and swing it like a sledgehammer. Wood splinters as the leg catches his chin; he stumbles but doesn’t fall.
He comes at me again, this time slashing sideways, aiming for my ribs. I block with my forearm — the broken one — and agony screams through my body, but I use the momentum to slam the chair into his knees, and it cracks into pieces at the force of the blow. We both crash into a shelf, tools and debris raining down around us.
He knees me hard in the stomach. I double over, gasping. He gets his hand to my throat, squeezing. I claw at his arm, but his grip is iron. My vision tunnels. I can feel him grinning, savoring every second, the monster finally unleashed and loving it.
But I still have that chair leg in my good hand, and I swing it up, catching him square in the temple. His grip slackens. I elbow him in the nose, breaking it with a crunch, and he stumbles back, clutching his face.
“Fucker!” he howls, blood streaming down. He comes at me, wilder this time, knife slashing. I sidestep, grab his wrist, andtwist. Even with one hand, I have leverage and rage enough to force it down. The blade glances off my thigh, but I ignore the pain. I wrench his arm behind his back and slam him into the counter.
Glass shatters, spraying everywhere.
We’re both covered in blood now, breathing in short, animal puffs. He’s strong, but I’m meaner. I rake my fingers into his eyes — anything to buy half a second, and then I grab his hair, slam his face into the counter again, and he goes slack for a moment, dazed.
That’s all I need.
I dive for the knife, fingers scrabbling over broken glass until I close around the handle. He tackles me from behind, teeth sinking into my shoulder, and we go down in a heap. My head snaps against the concrete, fireworks detonating behind my eyes, but I keep hold of the blade — and then I turn and drive it into his chest.
Once. Twice. Three times.
He makes a wet, surprised noise, more insulted than afraid. His eyes are inches from mine, wide and blue and utterly empty. He collapses on top of me, dead weight, blood pooling fast and dark. I push him off, rolling onto my back, every breath a red-hot spike. The room reeks of copper and terror.
I make it to my knees, then to my feet, swaying. My left hand is useless — I cradle it against my chest. There are punctures in my shirt, blood everywhere, but I’m alive. Barely.
My eyes land on my phone, still on the table across the room.
I stagger to it, snatch it up, and swipe the screen with shaking fingers. I know what I’ll find.
Killian sent Riley directions.
To him. To Viper. To her death.
“No…” My voice cracks. I pocket the phone, grab Killian’s car keys, grab his phone, and stumble toward the door. I don’t carethat I’m bleeding, don’t care that I can barely stand; all I care about is Riley.“Hold on, Sparrow. I’m coming.”
Chapter Forty-One
Riley
Consciousness comes back in pieces. A shaking, shivering, aching, painful thing. It creeps through my body as the sensation of cold concrete under my legs, of pipes digging into my spine, of chains biting my wrists.
I blink, but at first there’s just darkness. My eyelids feel raw, as if I’ve been sobbing for hours. I’m on my side, and when I try to turn over, my bare hip grinds against the frigid floor. For a moment, I don’t realize why it feels so abrasive, so exposed—then I become aware all at once: I’m naked. Not just undressed but stripped, my skin goose-pimpled and sticky with sweat, breath fogging in the cold air of wherever I am.
I try to scream, but my voice croaks out hoarse and pathetic, little more than a frog’s rasp. I lick my lips, taste copper and snot and fear, and scream again. The sound of my suffering bounces off the walls and comes back at me louder, shriller, layered on itself like the howling of wild dogs.
“HELP!” I shriek until my throat burns. “Somebody, please — HELP ME!”
My scream reverberates off the basement walls — ineffectual, helpless, trapped.
Then another sound joins it. Laughter, followed by footsteps overhead. The creaking of boards, the thud of boots on wood; then a door opens and closes, slowly, grinding on hinges thickwith rust. Then mocking screams drift down the stairwell, mimicking mine, twisting my fear into a joke.
