Brock stood, straightening his jacket. He aimed the gun at my head, then reconsidered and lowered it. “Time to go home, Ronan.” Brock leaned down, mouth next to my ear. “When I say the final word, you’ll be mine again. Completely. Forever.”
My consciousness slipped further away, darkness crowding my vision as neural pathways shutdown under the strain of resistance.
Through the haze of impossible pain, I heard it—the barely perceptible click of the door handle turning. My consciousness flickered like a dying bulb, darkness giving way to moments of brutal clarity.
Brock didn’t hear it. He was too consumed with his victory, too focused on the broken man kneeling before him.
The door swung open silently. Light from the hallway spilled into the room, cutting a sharp line across the hardwood floor. Through pain-hazed vision, I saw a female silhouette standing in the doorway.
Maeve.
No. Not here. Not now.
Brock’s expression transformed, triumph melting into shock as he straightened from his crouch beside me. His entire body tensed, recalibrating to this unexpected variable.
The room froze in tableau. Three figures locked in a silent confrontation.
Maeve stepped forward, gun raised and aimed with surprising steadiness at Brock’s chest. Her finger rested properly on the trigger, though her grip was slightly too tight. Her face was a mask of cold fury, but her eyes burned with determination. She looked exactly like what she was—not a trained operative but a woman who would do anything to protect what mattered.
“Ms. Durham.” Brock recovered quickly, a false smile appearing. He adjusted his cuffs with practiced nonchalance. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
My mouth formed her name without sound. Blood trickled hot from my nose, metallic on my tongue. I needed to warn her—the trigger words. If Brock said them, she was dead. I forced every remaining ounce of strength into my vocal cords, desperate to warn her, but only a strained groan escaped.
My gaze fell to the gun in Brock’s hand, now pointed casually toward the floor between us. It gleamed in the new light from the doorway, a silent witness to the shifting power dynamics in the room.
“Get the hell away from him.” Maeve’s voice cut through my agony. Each word felt like a hammer blow against the fog in my mind.
Brock’s eyes darted around the room, calculating potential avenues of attack or escape. His body shifted subtly, weight transferring in preparation for whatever he planned next.
We formed a perfect triangle of power—Maeve with a raised gun, Brock armed but calculating, and I caught between them on my knees, fighting for consciousness.
Brock’s mouth opened, lips beginning to form a word. I couldn’t tell if it was a trigger phrase, command, or attempt at conversation, but I could see the calculation in his eyes. Maeve’s finger visibly tightened on the trigger.
My consciousness flickered as I fought to stay present, to protect her. The darkness pushed in from all sides, threatening to consume me entirely.
Chapter 26
Maeve
“Step away from him.” The words tore from my throat, raw and unfamiliar.
That was the last warning I’d give to him. The thought of killing a man made me sick, but that nausea was absent now that I stared at Brock. My arms stretched forward, barrel aimed at his chest, but my fingers trembled against the trigger.
He had answers to so many questions—the only reasonwhyI couldn’t kill him right there and then. Xavier’s fate depended on it.
Behind Brock, Ronan knelt with his head bowed, face contorted in silent agony, veins standing out like ropes beneath his skin.Oh, no.Brock had undoubtedly done something to him—triggered some mechanism, worse than ever before. Ronan had fought so desperately to free himself from Oblivion, only to be chained back up again.
Unacceptable.
Seconds earlier, I’d been trapped in the security hub, helplessly watching monitors as Ronan collapsed. Through his earpiece, Brock’s voice carried cold and clear. He promisedRonan he’d take his time with me. He’d bring me to an end, just like he did with Sofia.
Something fractured inside me. I snatched the guard’s weapon from his holster and ran, fluorescent lights blurring overhead as I navigated sterile hallways by instinct alone.
Now I was here, facing a monster in his lair, with nothing but unstable hands and desperate courage.
Brock straightened his expensive suit jacket, brushing away nonexistent dust. “Ms. Durham. Put that down before you hurt yourself.” His tone was casual, almost bored, as if I’d interrupted a tedious meeting.
My eyes darted to Ronan. His gaze found mine—unfocused but desperate. He tried to speak, lips forming a single word I recognized immediately:run.
