“But they stopped,” she sobs, the words spilling out. “They stopped the car. They smiled.”
I look at her. She’s in shock. She wants to believe the lie because the lie feels safe. The lie means she is loved. The truth means she is prey.
I can’t let her keep the lie. The lie will get her killed next time.
I grab her chin and force her to look at the wreck.
“Look at the car,” I command.
“No,” she whimpers, trying to turn away.
“Look at it!”
I turn her head. The passenger’s arm is hanging limp out of the shattered windshield. His gun, the suppressed VP9, is resting on the crumpled hood.
“Look at the gun,” I say. “Does that look like a rescue weapon?”
She stares at the silencer.
“He pointed it at me,” she whispers. “He pointed it at my ribs.”
“If he was here to save you,” I say, my voice harsh, cutting through the rain, “why did he need a gun to make you get in the car?”
She stares at the dead man, her breathing ragged.
“He was going to take you,” I say. “He was going to drive you to a hole in the ground, chain you to a pipe, and use you to bleed your father dry.”
She crumbles, her legs giving out.
I catch her before she hits the ground. She buries her face in my chest and screams.
I hold her. I wrap my arms around her shivering body, shielding her from the rain, shielding her from the sight of the bodies. She presses her head against my shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” I say. “I’ve got you.”
Varro’s voice cracks through my earpiece. “Cassian! Targets neutral. Perimeter is locked down. We’re scrubbing the road. Do you need a medic?”
“Negative,” I breathe, the adrenaline finally cresting. “Secure the breach. I’m taking her back. Don’t disturb me.”
“Understood.”
I sweep her up into my arms. She wraps her legs around my waist, burying her face in my neck, and I start walking back toward the house, carrying her past the shattered gatehouse and into the elevator.
This time, when I bring her back into the tower, I don’t lock the door to keep her in. I lock it to keep the world out.
I carry her into the master bathroom—it’s a massive expanse of black marble and chrome—and set her down on the vanity counter.
I pull the soaked canvas jacket off her trembling shoulders and toss it to the floor. She sits there, shivering, muddy, and bloody. The damage pops against her impossibly pale skin. Cuts and scrapes decorate her legs. Blood trickles from an abrasion on her shoulder.
I step back and look at myself in the mirror. My nose is swollen, with dark blood caking my lip. Glass dusts in my hair. My knuckles are split. My shirt is torn open, revealing the old scars and the new bruises forming on my ribs.
I need steady hands.
Grabbing a towel, I scrub the blood from my face and fingers, then dry swallow two painkillers from the cabinet to dull the fire in my shoulder, forcing my body to focus.
When that’s handled, I grab the first aid kit.
“You came for me,” she whispers.
