Her.
My.
No.
Mine is not allowed to be a word I think about her.
Not like that.
Not now.
I cut across another alley and finally spot a service stairwell recessed into the side of a derelict transit building, its security light flickering like it’s considering giving up on life.
I veer toward it.
“Almost there,” I lie to her again, even though I have no idea what almost means in this situation.
I shoulder the stairwell door open and slip inside, letting it slam shut behind me to block out the worst of the sirens and chaos.
The concrete stairwell smells like piss and mold and old ozone.
I don’t care.
I sink down onto the first landing and gently lower her against my thigh, one arm still locked around her shoulders so she doesn’t slump sideways.
My hands are shaking so hard now it’s a miracle I manage not to drop her head.
“Hey,” I whisper desperately. “Hey. Stay with me. I need you conscious. Just for a minute. Just long enough for me to figure out what the fuck I’m doing.”
Her lashes flutter.
She doesn’t wake.
Her head lolls against my chest.
The jalshagar pulses again, lower this time, heavier, like something crouching inside my rib cage and watching her with possession and hunger and awe all tangled together.
My hands curl into fists in her hair.
Not pulling.
Just gripping.
Anchoring.
Mine.
“No,” I whisper again, my voice breaking. “She is a person. She is a person. She is a person.”
My hands are still shaking.
She is limp, warm, bleeding…
…and mine in a way that terrifies me more than anything that just happened inside that burning restaurant.
And I must get her to safety.
I burst into the alley, lunging for a breath of air that doesn't taste like ozone and smoke.
