And I had spent the last three weeks calling him a monster.
I was just lying to myself.
I…I love him.
I love his rough hands. I love his stupid, quiet half-smiles. I love the way his boots sound when they hit the floorboards, and the way he held my head to his chest in the dark corridor when he was falling apart. I love him, and I am currently sitting in a trap designed to kill him, and I have exactly zero seconds to waste being sentimental.
"Atara?" Tania whispers, looking up through her curls. "Who are these people? Who is Lorcan?"
"He's..." I swallow the blood in my mouth, my mind instantly clicking back into gear. The emotional fog clears instantly. "He's a very dangerous man, Tania. But he's also the man who's going to get us out of here."
"He's coming alone," she says, her eyes wide with terror. "The man with the bandage... Silas. He said if Lorcan brings anyone, they'll kill us."
"I know," I say.
I start scanning the room. My eyes move, quick and systematic.
Okay. Let's look at the numbers.
There are four guards in the main room. Two by the loading dock doors, two by the office. They are carrying short-barreled rifles, standard caliber, probably three-round burst. Silas has a sidearm, but his right hand is crippled from the knife wound I gave him at the gala. He’s running on adrenaline and pride, which makes him sloppy.
I look at the support beams. Rusted steel. The floor is concrete, cracked, and with pools of stagnant water.
If Lorcan walks through that door alone, he is outnumbered five to one. But Silas is expecting him to play the hero.He’s expecting Lorcan to freeze again, the way he did in the ballroom.
"Tania, listen to me," I whisper, my voice flat and absolute. "When the doors open, I need you to slide your chair back. As far into the shadow as you can get. Do you understand?"
"Atara, I'm scared," she whimpers.
"I know you are. But you're a Brooklyn girl. We don't get taken out in a Nevada warehouse. Slide the chair. Don't make a sound."
A heavy, metallic screech echoes through the space.
The main double steel doors of the warehouse slowly grind open, letting in a shaft of pale, dusty morning light. The desert wind follows, whipping the loose paper on the floor into a small vortex.
My breath catches in my throat.
Lorcan walks in.
He is alone, his face completely devoid of expression, no anger, no fear, just a cold, stony mask that looks like it was carved out of the mountain.
But his eyes.
The moment he enters, his gaze sweeps the room, ignoring the guards, ignoring the rifles pointed at his chest, and locks onto mine.
He sees my swollen eye. He sees the dark smear of blood on my collarbone. He sees the way my shoulders are hunched from the pain in my ribs.
I watch the shift happen.
It’s subtle, but to me, it’s like an earthquake. The stone mask doesn't break, but his jaw sets so hard the muscle in his cheek looks like steel. His shoulders reset, his chest rising with one slow, deep breath, and his posture turns into something so ancient and lethal that the guard nearest to him instinctively takes a step back, his rifle hand trembling.
Lorcan goes completely, dangerously still.
He doesn't draw his weapon. He doesn't shout. He just stands there in the middle of the concrete floor, his eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that feels like a physical touch.
He’s here.
The office door clangs open, and Silas steps out onto the metal catwalk above, his hand resting on the railing as he looks down at the floor. He lets out a loud, jagged laugh that echoes off the corrugated tin roof.
