Then movement flickered at the edge of my vision.
Selene.
She was dragging herself out of the lift. She clawed at the metal threshold, her body shaking with the effort to heave herself onto the landing. She was barely conscious, barely holding herself upright, but she was trying. Reaching for something she couldn’t even see.
Something inside me snapped. My shadows roared, risingthrough me. A primordial power boiled, pushing against the edges of the dead zone, seeking an outlet.
It found it.
I seized the guard by the throat and hauled him off the floor. His feet scrabbled against empty air.
He choked, eyes wide, struggling for breath.
With a sickening twist—a wet snap that echoed in the sudden stillness of the warehouse—I broke his neck.
His body went limp, a dead weight in my hands. The sound of his corpse hitting the ground was soft, almost insignificant compared to the violence that had just occurred.
Quiet descended. Only my ragged breathing fractured it.
I staggered back towards the lift, one hand pressed hard against the wound in my side.
Selene had collapsed halfway out of the cage, slumped against the concrete. I knelt. The effort nearly dropped me. My legs threatened to give way.
I touched her cheek. It was cool beneath my fingertips.
Her eyes fluttered open. A flash of brown, then a golden swirl that faded almost immediately. Recognition.
Relief hit me so hard it was dizzying.
She was alive. Bruised, shaken, but alive.
The adrenaline drained all at once. My knees buckled, dropping me beside her. I pressed my hand against the wound, but hot, sticky blood still seeped through my fingers.
Selene jolted, the haze in her eyes snapping into terrified focus. Her gaze locked onto the blood slicking my side. I was fading.
Panic cut straight through her concussed daze. She scrambled up, slipping on the wet metal before catching herself. Jaw set, she forced her battered body to obey, her attention narrowing to the damage.
The fear in her eyes had shifted, anchoring entirely on me.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” she choked out, reaching for me. “You’re losing too much blood.”
“No,” I rasped, gripping her arm hard enough to leave a bruise. “No hospitals. I can’t… be processed.”
“Riven, you’re dying!”
“Duskfall Manor, Seacliff Row,” I cut her off, the words wet and strained. “My house. It’s the only safe place. Do you understand?”
She stared at me, torn between panic and the sheer desperation in my voice. She looked at the blood, then back at my eyes, searching for sanity. She found it.
“Seacliff Row,” she repeated, her voice trembling but resolute. “Okay. Okay.”
I trusted her. Because I had no other choice. Because the strength in her gaze, even now, was enough to hold us both.
She forced herself upright, a low groan escaping her lips. Half-dragging, half-supporting me.
We stumbled away from the lift, my legs barely holding my weight.
The rain hit us as we cleared the warehouse doors, a shock to my fevered skin. My arm draped over her shoulder. Her arm wrapped around my waist, holding me upright with a strength she shouldn’t have had.
