The room erupts into chaos, bodies moving, voices shouting, blood spraying.
I look up, searching for Cormac.
He's still on the walkway above us, but now his hood is down, and his arrogant, fearless expression is gone.
His face is twisted with rage, or fear, I can't tell, and then he turns.
And runs.
Like the coward he is.
Octavian keeps coming, keeps firing, cutting through the robed figures like they're nothing.
A few get to him, but he deals with them quickly as he towers over everyone.
And all I can do is lie here, bound and bleeding, my world destroyed.
Watching him.
Wondering if he's here to save me, or if this was always part of his plan.
Because I can't tell if I'm being rescued.
Or delivered.
37
KEIRA
He reaches me, dropping to one knee beside the altar.
"You're okay, baby. I got you," he says.
He pulls a knife out and saws through the bindings, and the rope falls away. My wrists throb where the fibers bit into my skin, and I rub them as he cuts off the ones around my ankles.
The moment I'm free, I try to sit up, but pain shoots through my forearm, and I gasp.
Octavian's hand reaches for me, steadying me, and then he's pulling fabric from somewhere—his shirt, maybe—and pressing it against the carved M on my arm.
"I'm so sorry, Keira," he says. "We need to stop the bleeding." His eyes flick between my face and the wound.
I jerk my arm away from him.
"Don't."
"Keira—"
"Don't touch me."
His eyes meet mine, stunned.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
I push myself off the altar, ignoring the way my legs shake, the way my torn dress barely clings to my body.
My bare feet hit the cold floor, and I stumble, but I catch myself before he can reach for me again.
"Are you okay?" he asks, looking down at me.
