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I take one step, then stop.

Bryant’s men shift along the edge of the crowd. Two near the old fountain raise rifles. Another moves behind Poppy, gun angled low but ready. Three more spread along the first-floor railing, trying to find clean shots through the panic.

If I move too fast, someone dies. If I move wrong, it could be Poppy.

My grip tightens around the gun until my knuckles ache. Clair’s eyes find mine through the chaos, blood on her lips and fire in her stare.

Then I see Poppy being held by the wrist so hard her small fingers have gone pale. The man holding her gives her arm a careless yank, making her wince.

I’m going to rip his arm off.

Poppy twists against him. “Let go!”

He tightens his grip.

I step forward, and his smile dies.

Jacob moves beside me, shotgun up. Lyla, Joanie, Trish, and Carlos hold the upper level with guns trained on the crowd. The cannibals around us twitch and shift, hungry people suddenly remembering they can bleed too.

Bryant stares at the body that fell from the second floor, blood and gray matter splattered across his boots. He looks down at the mess, then back at me with the calm, amused expression of a man who thinks every nightmare still belongs to him.

He hasn’t learned yet.

The open court is a butcher’s pit. Blood shines across the tile in black-red smears. A dead woman lies near the edge of the circle, one ear torn, neck bruised deep purple. Another body sprawls closer to the dry fountain, throat opened so wide the skin hangs in ragged flaps. The crowd smells like sweat, grease, and chewed meat. Some of them still hold bones in their hands. One man licks blood from his thumb while staring at Clair like she is dessert.

My finger tightens on the trigger.

Not yet.

Poppy and Clair first.

Beside me, Jacob goes still. “Son of a bitch.”

Russ stands beside Bryant, close enough to be protected and far enough away to pretend he has nothing to do with any of this. My vision narrows until he is the only thing at the edge of it.

From above, Trish’s voice cuts sharp through the chaos as she fills the others in on who this asshole is.

“What?” Joanie says, her voice turning deadly.

“Hijo de puta,” Carlos spits.

Lyla says something low and vicious, but I lose the words because Russ looks at Clair.

Not Poppy. Not me.

Clair.

Like he still has a right to look at her.

Jacob steps closer. “Brother.”

I barely hear him.

Russ’s eyes flick to Poppy, then away.

Something in me goes quiet.

I holster my gun, lift my hands, and sign hard enough my fingers snap through the air.