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"Please…"

I turn, tearing the gun from my jacket pocket. I don't hesitate, I pull the trigger and put him out of his misery. Forcing my feet up the stairs, I don't let it in. I didn't even know his name. Fourteen years, and I never cared enough to learn it.

The gun shots begin to fire again further down the hall, the screams echoing through every inch of the manor. Boots over broken glass and furniture being thrown come next. I move quickly, taking two steps at a time as I rush up the stairs. The second floor corridors are quieter than ever before, giving an eerie feeling that sinks deep into your skin. I pass the same paintings that I've always passed, but this time they feel wrong. I feel watched.

It made sense for him to hide her in his childhood bedroom; he'd made that area of the manor forbidden. Not even maids are allowed up there. I've never seen his room; even as kids he'd lock himself inside—sometimes for days on end, especially after his dad had given him a beating for getting the answers wrong on a test or failing a class. They were homeschooled, we all were, and Vincent ran off most of our tutors with ease.

The rusted spiral staircase comes into view. My fingers flex around the handle of my gun, skin sticky with blood and a heart that's beating so fast, it aches against my sternum.

Something feels off. This feels too easy.

The staircase creaks beneath my weight as I take each step slowly. My palms sweat, gliding across the rusted metal of the bannister. I haven't thought about what comes next. There's no plan in place on where I'll take her or if she'll even trust me enough to go. All I can think of is the small beach house 300 miles away that I planned to run to four years ago. I don't even know if it still exists or how we'll get there. He'll have access to my bank. He'll track my phone. He'll kill us the second he gets his hands on us.

But it wouldn't matter, because she'll be free.

I swallow, climbing the final step. That's where I'll take her. She can walk along the seashore, feel the wind in her hair. Find a moment to finally breathe. It almost sounds like a dream—an unrealistic dream that we'll never get to live, not a plan for the future.

Pushing myself forward, I feel the kind of unease you get when you step into a place you've never been before. Here isn't like the rest of the manor; it isn't nicely decorated or even cleaned. It feels wrong, it feels weird. Like a place that exists somewhere it shouldn't. Childhood memories begin whirling through my head; hours of climbing these stairs with Jarrod to torment Vincent through his wood door. We'd sit outside making jokes and poking fun at him whilst he stayed barricaded in his room. It almost feels like a different life now.

The corridor narrows the further I go, the walls pressing in close enough that my shoulders nearly brush both sides. Dust clings to the air, thick and stale, like no one's breathed up here in years. The flickering bulb above buzzes, throwing shadows that stretch and snap back with every pulse of light. My boots sound too loud against the bare floorboards, every creak echoing back at me.

I can still hear it, distantly. The gunfire. The screaming. But up here it's swallowed, muffled through wood and plaster until it barely feels real. Just me, my own breathing, and the sound of my heart trying to climb up my throat.

My phone buzzes hard against my thigh, cutting through the quiet like a gunshot of its own. I almost don't answer it, don't want to risk the noise, don't want anything giving me away before I reach that door. Sliding it from my pocket, the name flashing on the screen sends a buzz into my chest. I want to ignore it, but I can't. Because it's Jarrod's name flashing on the screen.

"Jarrod, talk to me." I keep my voice low, pressing my back to the wall.

"Jax—fuck, Jax, it's bad. It's so fucking bad down here." His voice cracks, shouting half-drowned by something exploding behind him. Glass, maybe. Furniture. "The parlour's a bloodbath. They're not stopping, they're not fucking stopping⁠—"

"Where's Adrian?"

"I don't know, I lost him, I—" Another crash, closer this time, and Jarrod's breath comes ragged down the line. "Jax, I've got a car. East side, by the rose maze, engine's running. You need to get her and get out, you hear me? You don't have long—they're clearing the whole west wing."

"I'm close. I'm right outside."

"Then be fast." His voice drops, something in it breaking. "Please, be fast."

The line cuts before I can say anything else, dead air where his voice once was. I stare at the black screen for half a second too long, my chest tight, but I can't waste time trying to breathe. Not yet. Not until she's safe.

I shove the phone back into my pocket and turn to the door.

It's not locked. I push it open slowly, gun raised, and the first thing I see is the guard—big, thick-necked, and standing with his back to me. Fucking fool.

He turns half a second too late.

I don't give him the chance to reach for his own weapon. I close the distance in three strides, slamming the butt of my gun into his temple. He staggers, and before he can find his feet again, I'm on him, forearm hard against his throat, driving him back into the wall hard enough that the old plaster cracks behind his skull.

"Where is she?" My jaw is so tight the words barely fall, my spit landing on his cheek.

"A-Ace," he splutters. I press harder against his windpipe.

"Tell me where the fuck she is or I'll make this slow. Fuck, I'll make this so painfully slow you'll be wishing I'd snapped your fucking neck like a twig when I came in here."

"Under…the…bed," he says through a panicked breath which will be his last. His hands claw uselessly at my arm, eyes bulging, and I hold there, pressing harder against his throat. Watching as the life drains from his eyes, his face paling and his hands dropping to his sides. I let him drop to the floor, rage and grief taking over every inch of my body as I lift my boot over his face and slam it down, over and over. Feeling every crunch beneath my foot.

I feel nothing. Nothing but an emptiness I've felt ever since I last saw her.

My eyes finally leave him, sweeping the room, and that's when I see it. Dropping to my knees and throwing the bedding out of my way, my fingers brush over the box. I frown as I see the holes in the lid, my head tilted.