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Patrick snatches her arm and yanks her away from me. He shoves her over to his men who hold her on either side.

His hand on her skin sets me off. I swing on impulse, but one of his goons catches my arm before I can connect.

She doesn’t struggle, and it destroys me. After fighting to stay alive and demand justice, she’s resigned herself to defeat.

They guide her towards the exit, and she moves with no hesitation. Halfway to the door, she looks back, and I know it isn’t hope. It isn’t love. It’s a blade meant to carve that expression into my mind. To make sure I never forget this moment. That I carry it with me for the rest of whatever miserable life I have left.

Remembering her is all I can do.

And I deserve to remember her face just like that, beautiful and unforgiving in a way that she knows will haunt me.

CHAPTER 45

EDWIN

They’ve taken her. Two men put their hands on Zaiya’s arms as if she’s luggage to haul off.

Her white cloak drags over the stone as she disappears down the corridor. It should be regal on her, not a funeral robe.

No one tries to stop it. No one speaks up. This is what the Order does. This is what Elias started. My blood did this to her.

Patrick is basking in his new power. Bridget smiles without a trace of shame.

I don’t move. Emptiness has opened inside me. Her hand in mine, her voice in my ears, her body against mine—gone. Leaving me with the horrible burden of being alive without her.

Patrick comes forward, spreading his arms as if he’s welcoming the room into his reign.

“Men, we’re going to do big things together. But first, I have business to take care of.”

His smug grin sets me off.

I take off right for him. Measured steps I can’t stop. The guards at the edge of the chamber shift their weight. A few men turn their masked faces towards me. They love a spectacle.

I wish I didn’t have to check my gun at the door. That rule isn’t about safety. It’s about control. About making sure no one can end a problem quickly.

My hands will have to do for now.

Patrick watches me approach, and his smile tightens.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he says. “Your little martyr chose this.”

I stop an arm’s length away. My body moves on muscle memory alone. The only thought in my head is kill.

My fist hits his face with a wet crack. Patrick staggers back, one hand flying to his cheek. Blood gathers at his lip, then trails down in a thin, disappointing line. Not enough.

I need more.

Clearly stunned, he forces out a laugh, as if he can’t believe he’s been touched.

“You’re proving my point,” he says, spitting blood onto the stone floor. “Emotional. Unstable. You were never fit to lead.”

I close the distance again. My second strike is harder. His nose gives beneath my knuckles. Pain and satisfaction pulse through my hand.

The urge to die is still in here. It doesn’t care about consequences. It only cares about ending the ache by any means available.

But the part of me that Zaiya woke up cares about one thing—getting her back.

Patrick tries to step away. I grab him by the throat. My fingers lock around his neck and bring him to the ground, getting leverage over him.