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Aria wasasleep when she heard the first crash. She swam her way up from sleep, her face against the mattress, thinking maybe she’dimaginedit.
But no. The first crash was followed by a second and that one was followed by the unmistakable crack ofgunfire.
She shot out of bed in an instant and got onto the floor, her eye sweeping the room for anything she could use to help Damian when he gottoher.
Because she knew it was him. Knew he was comingforher.
A burst of gunfire erupted from more than one location in the apartment. It was instinct to cover her head with her hands, to flatten herself against the floor as gunshots reverberated through thebuilding.
It didn’t take long to figure out there was nothing she could do to help but be ready to lunge for the door when Damian got to her. She considered crawling to the wall next to the door, then discarded the idea when more gunfire sounded, closer this time and followed by the sound of splintering wood and shatteringplaster.
The walls next to the door ran along the hall. She didn’t want to risk catching a stray bullet if the shoot-out continued into the hall that led to her room. She wouldn’t be any help to Damian if she was bleeding out as he tried torescueher.
She stayed put instead, away from the walls and the door, listening for anything that might give her a hint of what was going on beyond the walls oftheroom.
It didn’t help. Silence had suddenly enveloped the apartment. She didn’t know how long it lasted before she caught the sound of flesh meeting flesh. It was close to her room, maybe right outside in the hallway, and she tuned her ears to the sound of grunting, the wet smack of a mallethittingmeat.
More gunshots sounded from somewhere else in the apartment. Were there two men coming for her? Maybe Damian and Cole — one fighting the guards in the hall and the other holding the others off with gunfire elsewhere in theapartment?
It was impossible to tell. Her mind, muddied by weeks alone in the little room, couldn’t get a handle on what she was hearing. Her heart thudded in her chest, adrenaline rushing her body. She fought the urge to run to the door, to bang on it andscream.
It would be a mistake, temporary relief at the risk of her possible rescue. It would only take one bullet through the door tokillher.
She bit down on her hand instead, forcing herself to focus on the pain of teeth in flesh in an effort to keep herself from screaming forDamian.
He wouldfindher.
A break in the distant action was met by a crack at her door. Looking up to see the wood splintering, she backed away from the door while simultaneously preparing to rush it if it wasDamian.
A moment later the door burst open, the lock popping as it flew against the wall. She looked up to see a monster of a man, a long scar running down the left side of his face. Cowering was reflexive; he was more fearsome than any of the guards who had kept her prisonersofar.
She scrambled away from him toward the safety ofthebed.
Strong arms lifted her off the floor as if she weighed no more than afeather.
“It’s okay.” The voice was casual, as if it were an everyday occurrence for the man behind it to break down a door, to lift a woman off the floor in one fell swoop. “I’m withDamian.”
She relaxed in his arms, let her feet find thefloor.
“Stay behind me and do exactly what I say,” themansaid.
He didn’t have to ask twice. She would do anything he said if he was with Damian. In fact, she would have been hard pressed to deny him even if he hadn’t been. He was so massive he could have split her in two withonehand.
She stayed close to his back as he moved toward the door. He glanced into the hall and waved her forward. She’d no sooner stepped into it when a dark figure appeared at the endofit.
All she saw was the weapon being raised in theirdirection.
Farrell’s hand shot out, shoving her behind him as he used his other hand to raise his weapon. A line of gunfire ate into the wall at the end of the hall and the man at the other end of it fell to the floor like a bagofmeat.
“Let’s go,” themansaid.
She followed him down the hall, past the bathroom she’d used for the past few weeks, the furthest she’d ever gone beyondherroom.
They entered a dingy living room with worn carpet. An outdated kitchen stood beyond it, food spread out on the counter. The refrigerator was open, a dead man sprawled on the discolored linoleum with blood leaking from a bullet hole inhishead.
It was eerily quiet, the scene strangely surreal. All this time she’d been locked in the room this other space had existed around her. The guards had come and gone, prepared food from the refrigerator, watched the television that had been shattered by a bullet in thelivingroom.
