Page 211 of Damsel in Disguise

Without questioning back, I follow, even though it sounds unnecessarily dramatic.

He locks the office behind us and turns away from the elevators, leading me through deserted hallways lined with darkened offices and forgotten storage rooms until we reach the emergency stairwell.

I know where it leads—the rear parking area. He says nothing but walks ahead, leading me.

I tell myself that it makes sense.

I tell myself that avoiding crowds is the logical choice.

I tell myself that Adrian is overthinking.

That Alistair is protecting me.

That I’ll call everyone the moment we’re somewhere safe.

And because, despite everything, some foolish part of me still trusts him… I keep following him, even while every instinct I have is screaming that something code red.

58. GLASS

alistair

There are only two places in the world that can still make me feel as though I’m walking into a prison.

One is where I lost my mother, and the other is Triarch Dominion, buried deep beneath the the Forest of Dean soil.

The heavy iron gates guarding the subterranean access tunnel open without question the moment the scanners recognize my Aston Martin, yet the silence that greets us as we descend past the surface is wrong.

A place like this is never truly quiet. Even on its calmest days, muffled voices drift through ancient, rock-hewn corridors, tactical boots echo across polished stone floors, technicians move between subterranean wings, and guards exchange reports in the subterranean assembly yards. An order has its own sound.

Today, that sound is missing.

The primary staging yard, carved deep under the earth, is crowded beneath the harsh glow of industrial floodlights, filled with faces I rarely see gathered in one place.

The sentries posted along the reinforced concrete catwalks carry rifles instead of ceremonial sidearms.

Beside me, Ariella looks through the window at the cavernous, stone-walled bunker structure.

“Where are we going?”

I keep my eyes on the road ahead. “Somewhere secure.”

She falls quiet for a moment. Then, softly, she asks, “Should I be afraid?”

“No,” it’s the first lie I tell her today.

The car rolls to a halt before the main entrance. The gates begin to close behind us.

A dozen armed men are already waiting.

The eldest steps forward and lowers his head.

“Sir Hertley,” his gaze shifts toward the passenger seat. “The council has declared an internal lockdown.”

My mind immediately begins sorting through possibilities. “For how long?”

“Twenty-three hours.”

That explains the crowd.