my eyes, I forced them to focus, attempted to swallow against what felt like burning coal in my throat.
A small vein of recognition pulsed through me when I could finally see the woman’s face.
She was older than me, near Gretchen’s age, but instead of the severe bun Gretchen always chose to wear, this woman had dark hair shot with silver that hung down over her shoulders. Her eyes met mine, but shadow prevented me from seeing the color.
“I think I know you,” I whispered, my voice like sandpaper against my throat.
Her mouth pulled into a quick smile, there and then gone again.
“Maybe,” she whispered cryptically, “but we don’t have time for introductions. I need to get you out of here, hopefully in time to stop Callan.”
Healthy fear doused my body. “You said this was a trap.”
She nodded, her hand closing over my wrist. “One against twenty isn’t the best of odds. We have to move quickly.”
I shook my head, my teeth clenching against the pain of it. “He wouldn’t come here alone. He’s not stupid.”
“No, but he is a loaded cannon, and you’re the only thing that can set him off. He doesn’t think rationally when it comes to you. He never has.”
She grew quiet for a second, her voice apologetic when she said, “Forgive me for this, but we don’t have time to chat.”
Pushing to her feet, she tugged me to mine, her arm wrapping around my waist as I cried out at the pain of the sudden movement, my body unbalanced on my feet while she held me up.
I almost fell back again, but the snap of her voice focused me. “If we don’t start moving, Callan will die. I know it hurts, but deal with it.”
Forcing one foot in front of the other, I used the woman for support as we moved through the deep shadow of the room, the pain staggering, but I refused to fall victim to it.
It took effort to climb the stairs, neither of us speaking as she pulled open the door to peek out. Satisfied that we could keep going, she wrapped my arm over her shoulders and helped guide me through the door and down a long hall.
In the distance, I could hear low voices, but I couldn’t make out what they said.
The woman turned to me, held a finger against her lips to remind me to be quiet. I nodded but winced against pain that felt like a simultaneous punch to the head and stomach.
Before every corner, she would peek out, ensuring that the hallways were empty before forcing me forward.
Voices surrounded us, none of them close enough to worry we’d be caught, but I knew the slightest sound would echo inside this place, alerting them to our presence.
The halls reminded me of my mother’s rose maze, a series of different paths and directions that were disorienting. If not for the woman guiding me, there would have been no way for me to find an exit.
Eventually we found a steel door that reflected the red light above it. I knew it was heavy, too heavy to be used for the interior. The woman’s relieved sigh gave me hope that we had found the way outside in time to somehow stop Callan from coming.
However, that hope died an instant death when she shoved against the bar latch to discover it was locked.
Cursing beneath her breath, she turned suddenly, hearing something that I couldn’t.
“We have to find somewhere to hide,” she whispered, her expression worried, her tone clipped as she spoke.
“What’s happening?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer, but she gave it to me while leading me down another hall.
“I think we’re too late.”
Terror shivered down my spine, my gut a heavy ball of churning dread.
“Why do you think that?”
She didn’t need to answer me, not that she would have had time to before the first of the male voices started shouting and the first deadly shots of gunfire burst in the rooms surrounding us.
Callan
Moritze was a bigger idiot than I’d given him credit for. He was ballsy, I’d give him that, but so fucking stupid it almost made me feel sorry for him.
Almost.
Nothing could exist within the hatred that burned through me in blue flames, hotter than hot, a threat so fucking lethal that it singed my skin with the lick of death, of destruction, of a rage so damn violent that it wouldn’t be a simple bullet to the brain or a snapped neck. I would make Moritze beg for