I spent the last two days hiding from him. Behind closed doors, in meetings, anywhere I could avoid him and his words. Or the feelings he brings up.
I can’t hide here. He sees behind the mask, knows who I am—makes me remember what we had. And it fuckinghurts. The kind of pain that leaves me gasping for air in a puddle of blood, fighting to stay conscious.
Linwood does this to me. I need my walls—my space, now more than ever. Let him call it hiding, whatever it is, I need it desperately.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how I lean, just a little, into his touch. A moment of stability before the elevator doors open, and we surge forward.
I watch Collins’ reaction carefully, ignoring my shadow. The basement is the place where Pops would torture Collins—and I know it can trigger a panic attack.
But she walks straight, shoulders back. Not one ounce of fear enters her green eyes, and I step back, impressed. A part comes from the strength Hayes instills in her, but a bigger part—the part that is wholly Collins—shines through. The part that embraced her darkness, but didn’t let it define her.
A darkness that enveloped me and forged me intothis.
You’re such a pretty little thing, aren’t you?
Pushing into the med lab, I see three of my runners on metal tables, agony coating the air like a dark cloud. Nausea swims in my gut, but I force it back, pushing the mask of a clan captain to the front.
Blood drips onto the tiled floor, the impersonal overhead lights highlighting their injuries. One man has shrapnel protruding from his leg, his pants ripped and frayed from a blast. Another man’s arm is burnt, black flesh cracking to reveal red tissue and corded muscle beneath. The last lies, mostly motionless, with giant gouges in his chest. A dry rattling breath leaves his lips.
Grabbing gauze, I run to his side, pressing it against the wounds. Blood soaks them immediately, my fingers sticky and red.
Collins stops at my side, a light touch on my shoulder. I flinch, though I don’t mean it. “He’s not going to make it.”
Licking my lips, I nod once. The sounds of blood falling mix with the grunts of pain from my men, hammering into my skull like tiny needles.
He’s one man.Losing one man in this life isn’t much. It’s admirable, even.
Glancing to the side, the flash of Ollie’s face, grinning from ear to ear, steals my breath. He was a child—someone Bruno took from me—whom I gave my protection. He was a nameless kid who needed somewhere to belong.
He’s another face. More blur by—broken, bloody, dead—and I struggle to breathe. Their faces, these spirits, haunt me. They torture me with memories of what I couldn’t do—who I couldn’t save.
It’s never easy. Itshouldn’tbe easy—to kill, to destroy, to lose lives. Pops made it look effortless—a general task to check off. I’m tormented by the past deaths I couldn’t prevent.
Killian tugs me back, my shoulders resting against his chest. Holding my wrists, he cradles them to my front, his warmth blasting away the grief—the shame—as I stare down at my runner.
His eyes lock onto me, brilliant and wide. I don’t know what he sees—but I hope it’s beautiful.
Slowly, those eyes dull, and the light fades as his body slumps. Collins checks his heart with her stethoscope. Sheepishly, she ducks her head. “I’m sorry.”
Gulping, I try to drag in a breath. It’s not sorrow that weighs on me like a corpse, but the grief of losing. Of not protecting them—offailing.
You were never supposed to lead. Only a man can handle this life.
Closing my eyes, I turn my head, willing Pops’ voice togo away.
“Did you know his name?”
Clearing my throat, I force my words to be steady. “Jaimie.”
Catching Hayes’ eye, I say, “We need to provide for his wife.”
We knew Jaimie—we know everyone in this clan. Every name. Every runner.
Pops wouldn’t have done it. That’s why I will.
Inhaling again, I shove every terrible thought and emotion back into the recesses of my mind. Where all the dark deeds go—where the nightmares hide. Feelings have no place in this world, and I can’t risk any distractions.
Turning to Collins, I ask, “Who’s next?”
