32. Scarlett
Lyssa wasn’t wrong—thestairwell is challenging. There are scores of guards in here, and they really, really want to kill us.
We don’t hit the first wave until about halfway down, and I’m just grateful we’re heading down instead of up, because it gives us the higher ground, and means less physical exertion on our part.
But the men in here are fierce, and they aren’t fucking around. The Sokolovs in the alley were child’s play compared to this.
And making sure that my parents and Mrs. Graves are safe only makes things more difficult.
But Lyssa…
Lyssa moves with a deadly, athletic grace, her strikes powerful but precise. Now that my eyes have been opened, I see exactly why she’s so good—there’s no anger clouding her view. Her cool head lets her see every opportunity, and she takes each one, exploiting it to the full. I start to match her rhythm, our movements not synchronizing, but complementing.
Grandmother’s operatives keep coming, but Lyssa and I make an incredible team. We’re in the zone, and for the first time in a fight, I feel like her equal, as if—as if we were made for this.
I take an acrobatic wall-run, using the narrow confines of the stairwell to my advantage, launching myself off the reinforced concrete to jump down a full flight and take out a gunman before he can even raise his weapon. And Lyssa is right behind me, tucking into a roll over my bent back, using me as a springboard to take down another assailant with a savage knee to the face.
Lyssa smirks, clearly impressed by my skills as I land in a deep crouch beside her. Even streaked with sweat and splattered with blood, she looks…
Intensely formidable and inexplicably beautiful.
“Not bad,” she pants, before ducking a shot. I take out the guy myself with a well-placed chest shot, and glance up behind, hoping my parents didn’t see.
“Don’t worry about them,” Lyssa commands, and then sweep another attacker’s legs out from under him with a bone-cracking kick. “Mrs. G will let us know if anything’s coming down behind us.”
That’s not exactly what I’m worried about, but I shove aside the shame I feel, along with the guilt for dragging my parents and Mrs. Graves through this.
It is my fault, but the only thing I can afford to focus on right now is getting through the onslaught.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity in the choked confines of the stairwell, there are no more guards. No more attacks. We make our way as fast as we can down to the first floor, but Lyssa pauses before opening the door.
“You,” she says, putting a hand in my chest. “You stay here. You don’t exit this door.” She drops her voice. “The Syndicate are out there. If they see you?—”
I take a step back.
She points at my parents. “You two, you’re coming with me. So if you’ve got something to say to your daughter, now’s the time.” She turns away as I embrace them both again, hushing their confused questions.
“I love you both,” I tell them. “And you’re going to be just fine. I’ll be back with you soon, I promise, and I’ll explain everything then.” My lie is convincing enough, it seems, because when Lyssa motions them forward, they go along with her and Mrs. Graves.
Mrs. Graves turns back at the last second, grabs my hand, and mouths, Run.
I just smile at her and squeeze back at her hand. “Go be with your people,” I tell her, and push her out the door.
I watch through the cracked-open door as my parents and Mrs. Graves follow Lyssa across the cavernous, harshly-lit lobby. Then I see them—Hadria Imperioli, tall and black-haired, standing among a knot of Syndicate muscle.
Hadria pushes through them to grab Mrs. Graves in a hug, and then gives a quizzical look at my parents. Lyssa says something brief, and Hadria seems to accept it, giving out an order that has the Syndicate members hustling my parents out of the building with them.
I let the door close, and sit on the steps, heart hammering because I think I know what’s coming next. And I’m ready to let it happen.
A moment later, Lyssa returns through the door, tall and strong, expression utterly inscrutable as those dark brown eyes look down at me.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “For my parents.”
“I told the Syndicate to take them back to a safe house of ours,” she says flatly. “And I’ll arrange protection for them at their home, after all this is…over.”
“Thank you,” I say again.
I stand up. If I’m going to die, I’d rather die on my feet.
“You were good today,” she says slowly, looking back up the stairwell. “Impressive. Kept your head.” I stay silent, a little confused at the praise. “And we have unfinished business,” she goes on. The air in here is getting unpleasant, given the number of dead we left on the stairs. “The cops are nowhere to be found—yet. So that gives me a little time to deal with Grandmother, unless she’s caught that ride yet.” She looks back to me. “You could take your shot at Ariadne, too. If you want.”
If I want?
I don’t even hesitate. “Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Her hand shoots out, grabs my wrist as I turn to mount the stairs.
“But we don’t have time to w?—”
She yanks me close to her and cuts me off with a kiss, a searing, passionate kiss that steals my breath. I wrap my arms around her neck instinctively, heart jackhammering against my ribcage as I give myself over to her.
Completely. Utterly.
She breaks away from my mouth only to kiss down my neck, clutching onto me with a desperate hold, and I’m on fire for her, instantly. “Lyssa—I’m so sorry,” I choke out, desire warring with all the regret and all the guilt I feel.
“Shh,” she says, capturing my mouth again for a moment, before pushing me back into the wall. “I understand,” she mutters, nipping at my throat, making me arch into her with a groan. “I do, Scar. I do understand—all too well. And I…”
“Yes?” I ask breathlessly.
Maybe there’s hope? Maybe she can find it somewhere in her to forgive me for the awful things I’ve done?
She presses her forehead against mine, looking straight into my eyes. “And I’m sorry, too,” she says.
A stabbing pain lances into my neck. The world tilts sickeningly, my knees buckling, giving me no time even to struggle, as I remember far too late…
Anything can be a weapon. Sex can be a weapon.
Love can be a weapon, too.
I’m still in her arms as she lowers me gently, she’s still got me, still holding on, but everything is going black…Oh, God, I wish I’d had a chance to tell her that I?—