"Madeline!"
I hit the floor hard, the blue silk tearing against the cold stone. I roll, clutching my arm, my vision swimming. Through the haze of pain and red emergency lights, I see Deimos moving like a blur of lethal shadows. He isn't fighting to defend himself anymore; he is fighting to erase everything that touched me.
Charles stumbles back, his mask slipping as he tries to realign his weapon, but his son is already there. The only guard left standing shoots one last time, right into his shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch, his sole focus is on the man in the mask.
He slams into him with the force of a high-speed collision, sending them both crashing into the mahogany desk. Deimos has his hands around his father’s throat, pinning him against the desk as the remaining guard hesitates, terrified of the demonic energy radiating from the man they thought they had broken.
"You touched her," Deimos hisses, his voice a low, terrifying promise of extinction.
"You hurt her. Now, I’m going to show you exactly what kind of monster you spent years creating."
The red emergency strobes pulse like a dying heart, staining the white porcelain of the fallen mask in shades of crimson. Deimos has his fingers buried in the fabric of his father’s collar, his muscles coiled to deliver a final, crushing blow.
The rage radiating from him is absolute. A dark, suffocating heat that fills the entire vault.
Suddenly, a high-pitched, piercing alarm shrieks through the vents, vibrating in the very marrow of my bones. The heavy, rhythmic thud of dozens of boots echoes from the corridor. It’s not just Charles’s guards anymore; The High Council’s private hitters are closing in.
"Deimos!"
I scream, clutching my bleeding arm as I struggle to find my footing among the scattered ledgers.
"They're coming! There are too many of them!"
He freezes. His chest heaves, his gaze darting from the masked man, who lies gasping and broken against the mahogany desk, to the jagged hole in the door.
He is trapped between the vengeance he has craved for years and the woman bleeding on the floor.
"Go!"
I yell again, my voice raw.
"We have to move now or neither of us leave this building!"
The hesitation in his eyes flickers and dies, replaced by a sharp, tactical clarity. He lets go of Charles, the older man slumping to the floor like a discarded rag. He leans down, his face inches from his face, his voice a lethal, frozen whisper.
"Enjoy the air while you still have it," Deimos warns.
"Because I am coming back. And next time, there won't be a single place left for you to hide behind."
He doesn't waste another second. He pivots, his movements a blur of controlled power. Before I can even protest, he reaches down and sweeps me off my feet, lifting me bride-style against his chest. His grip is iron, but his touch is surprisingly careful of my wounded arm.
"Hold on to me, Mali," he commands, his voice dropping into that protective growl.
I wrap my good arm around his neck, burying my face into the soot-stained crook of his shoulder as he charges out of the vault. The corridor is a gauntlet of smoke and shadows. We almost fly past the first wave of guards, Deimos using his momentum to shoulder-check a man into the stone wall without slowing down.
Bullets whistle past us, sparking off the marble pillars, but he moves with a desperate, superhuman speed. He tilts his head over me, as a human shield, not risking any other bullet touching me. The sapphire silk of my dress flutters behind us like a tattered flag of a war we barely survived.
"I've got you," he mutters against my hair, his heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against mine.
"I've got you baby. Just stay with me."
CHAPTER 18 - Deimos
The engine of the sedan screams as I throw it into gear, the tires clawing at the asphalt of the private drive. I don’t look back at the Gilded Cage or the monsters inside it. My world has shrunk to the size of this car and the woman bleeding into the expensive leather of the passenger seat.
"Stay with me, Madeline," I rasp, my voice sounding like broken glass.
I reach over, my hand trembling, a sensation I haven't felt in a decade, as I press a wad of sterile gauze against the furrow the bullet tore into her arm. At this moment, I can't even feel my own wound. The bullet just scratched my shoulder.
