Another guard bolts, pulling a blaster. I snatch a deep-fryer basket off the wall. He fires—shot glances off metal. I swing the basket overhead, smash against his skull. Flesh meets metal. He topples into a fryer pit. Steam and oil hiss—burnt grease smell assaults my nostrils. He convulses, silent.
Through the fray, alarms wail. Red emergency strobes blink. I sprint, boots splashing through grease puddles, past cluttered tables and shattered glass. My heart hammers so loud it drowns out everything—hot, frantic.
I see stairs to the hostage hall. I dash up. Gunfire cracks behind me. I press upward, climb steps two at a time. A guard meets me at the top—rifle raised. I sidestep, grab his arm, toss him backward. He crashes into a table. He grunts, hits floor.
Then I step into the hall—my stomach drops.
Alaina stands in the center, Caelix strapped to her side. She’s wrapped in the uniformed flanked crowd. Her eyes widen when she sees me. The rifles trained on me now slacken fractionally. The new leaders—Marrok unconscious behind them—step aside.The hall is split by a corridor of stunned hostages and gang members tremoring between fear and loyalty.
My breath catches. Every muscle constricts. I half-run, half-stumble toward her.
“Alaina!” I roar, voice thick. Caelix stirs, his small face startled.
Her lips part, tears in her eyes. “Troka—” she whispers.
I close distance in steps so fast the world tilts. When I reach her, I drop to a knee, arms trembling. I brush her face—finger trailing sweat and dust—then press a palm over Caelix’s back protectively.
She doesn’t push me away. The crowd murmurs. Some lower guns. Some stand frozen. Some back as though unsure.
“Don’t hurt her,” I rasp to the others. “Don’t harm the child.”
Her eyes flick to me, confusion and relief. The threat in her gaze softens.
I see in her posture: she’s no longer pleading. She’s unyielding. Proud.
Then a voice cracks behind me: the scarred lieutenant from earlier. “He’s ours now,” he says, leveling a rifle. “He belongs to our cause.”
I turn, deranged energy coiling in me. “He doesn’t belong toyourcause.” I push myself upright, glancing at her, at the crowd.
Her voice is firm: “Heisours.” She steps forward, placing a hand on my arm, steady. The guns wobble in the grips of gang members.
I swallow hard, chest tight. The adrenaline recedes, replaced by turmoil. Despair, fear, love. I look at Caelix in her arms—this child who might be mine—and I fight to believe she hasn’t been broken by this.
My heart flutters:I came for you. I didn't want this. But here we are.
For a moment, time stills. The hall hushes beneath the tension. Alaina meets my gaze. A flicker of a tear. Caelix’s fingers curl around her shirt.
Then the murmur rises, voices whispering, cheers building underground. Rifles lower further. The effect of the crowd shifting, allegiances fracturing, uncertain.
I grip her hand. Her skin is warm. I hold Caelix closer. The weight of what she’s done—leading them—cracks across my mind. But in this moment, her face, the child at her side, she is my rescue, my war.
I whisper, “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head. Her voice is raw: “No… but the hall is shifting.”
I nod. “We shift it back.”
She gives a sharp nod. Hands trembling, she looks at her new followers, then back to me. “We move forward.”
I glance at unconscious Marrok. The crown dropped. The war real.
In the echoing hall, with broken glass, blood spatter, guns pointing yet lowered, I hold her and Caelix like I’d hold my own life. And for once, I believe I may yet reclaim it.
CHAPTER 40
ALAINA
Isettle Troka into a shadowed alcove behind the ruined buffet stand—its cracked granite top dripped with congealing sauces. The air is thick with burnt grease and desperation. He presses his forehead to mine, amber eyes blazing in half-darkness. Every heartbeat screams.
