He steps over him without looking down. “Car. Now.”
“No.” I pull against Ian’s grip. “We have to wait for him.”
“Sophia, we don’t have?—”
“Reth!” I scream and wrench free, but Ian snakes his arms around my waist and pulls me back. “Let me go!”
“Don’t fight me, Crazy. Please.”
“Fuck you. Reth! Reth, please!”
He appears in the doorway, and I almost sag in relief. I don’t care that he’s covered in blood. I don’t care that the blade is dripping crimson. All I care about is that he’s here, and now we can all leave. Together.
But he’s just standing there. He’s not moving. And his face is doing the thing it does when he’s managed himself back into something controlled, something that can compartmentalize because all that matters is the objective. The target. The execution.
I shake my head, first in disbelief, then in panic. “No.”
“Ian will keep you safe.”
“No. No. No.” I try to claw out of Ian’s arms, but he won’t let me. “You said you’re coming with us.”
Blue eyes that were warm and soft a few hours ago are now cold and hard, and I hate it. I hate everything about it. About this. It’s all fucking wrong.
“If I go with you, she won’t stop.”
“Who is she?” I demand, biting back tears. “Who the fuck is this woman you keep talking about?”
Something moves across his face so fast I almost miss it—pain, real and unmanaged, the specific pain of a man doing the thing that costs him most.
There’s the distinct sound of tires crunching over snow outside.
“We got more company,” Ian bites out.
“Nazareth, please,” I plead, tears slipping down my cheeks. “Come with us.”
He holds my gaze for one more second. One more heartbreaking, world shattering second, then looks at Ian.
“Go.”
Ian moves, and the world lurches and tilts. I don’t stop fighting until the car door closes—and even then, I’m not done, because the door closing isn’t the end of it. The door closing is just a new obstacle, and my hand finds the handle immediately, yanking, because he’s still in there, he’s still in that house, and if I can just get back?—
“Sophia. Stop.”
“Let me out.” I yank the handle again. “Ian, let me out of this car.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Let me out!”
The car is already moving, Ian’s foot on the accelerator, the mountain road unspooling in the headlights. I throw myself at the door, yanking it hard, desperate to get out, to go back.
Ian’s arm shoots across the center console and catches me, iron-hard across my chest, pinning me to the seat. “You need to fucking stop!”
“There are too many of them.” The words come out wrecked. “We have to go back, we have to?—”
“We can’t go back.”
“They’re going to kill him!”
