“Hunters want our destruction. This boy”—he jabs his thumb in Reeve’s direction—“usedyou, yet you remain intent on protectin’ him?” Gael’s elocution is painstakingly slow, the kind meant for someone he clearly considers dense. “Sweetheart, you need?—”
“Stop with thesweetheartsand thedarlins’and thedaughters! And fucking step away from him,” I bite out.
“They want to destroy our magic…our goddess. Don’t you care about Gaea?”
“Asks the man who had me shot,” I sneer.
“Only to keep you safe!”
A dark laugh slips out of me, but it’s cut short by the crimson slick on his blade.
Rage coils through me, devouring my restraint, and I squeeze a bullet into his still-lifted palm. His fingers jerk open, releasing the knife that clatters onto the large, gray tiles. And then I shoot him in the shoulder, jerking his body away from Reeve.
The sight that awaits me stops my rancorous heart. The Hunter’s eyes are glazed and his head lolling to the side. Blood leaks out of his nose, his mouth, his neck. It paints his pale skin, saturates his white T-shirt, and streaks his gray sweatpants.
As Gael curses under his breath, I croak, “Reeve?”
He doesn’t react to his name, so I call him by his other name—the one he misled me with.
“Cillian?”
I get no reaction.
“Reeve!” I shout, lunging toward him and tossing my gun to bracket his drooping face.
His blood has pooled around those white high-tops he loves as much as the woman whose initials grace the leather.
“You leave me no choice,” Gael drawls, a second before a brutal pressure crushes my lungs.
I spin around, magic gathering at my fingertips. Gael slaps my hands aside, then yanks so hard it feels like he’s dragging my lungs up my throat.
I scramble for the gun I tossed, but the murderer must’ve moved it, because it’s nowhere near me.
I push to my feet, the effort so monumental I teeter. But I don’t fall.
I think of Ines, letting her hard lessons fuel my legs and fortify my spine.
Just as I charge the prick who made me, a gunshot cracks through the air.
Chapter 59
Electra
Gael’s knees buckle, and he lists sideways. I go down with him.
As he falls in a heap of suede and denim, a raw, feminine voice murmurs, “Always wanted to sink a bullet into that man. Hope I didn’t clip you.” Quinn looks me over before offering me her hand.
I blink up at her, my throat aching like it’s packed with sand, like I haven’t taken a sip of water in days, unlike my eyes, which are wet.
Once I’m steady on my feet, Quinn lets go and turns toward Reeve. The cry that erupts from her mouth is so shrill it splinters the silence.
I close my eyes, shame and grief gnawing on my insides.
I was too late.
Too late.
Too late.
