Chapter 2 - The First Shot
Damian covered my mouth before I could make a sound.
His other hand pointed toward the floor.
Stay down.
The library handle stopped moving.
Silence.
Then the voice came again.
"Elena."
My heart hammered so violently I could feel it in my throat.
I stared at Damian.
He shook his head once.
Don't answer.
Marco lay beside us, struggling to stay conscious.
The red emergency lighting made everything look unreal.
"Miss Hart," the stranger called. "We only need to talk."
Only.
People who truly wanted to talk rarely introduced themselves through a locked door during an armed attack.
Damian leaned toward Marco.
"Secondary exit?"
Marco pointed weakly toward the bookshelves.
"North wall."
Damian scanned them.
I whispered, "There's another door?"
"Old houses love secrets."
"Do you know where it is?"
"No."
"That's reassuring."
The stranger outside tried the handle again.
Damian moved toward the shelves.
I crawled after him.
Marco caught my sleeve.
"Don't trust—"
His voice failed.
"Who?"
His eyes rolled toward the door.
Then he lost consciousness.
Damian found a brass lever disguised as part of a shelf.
He pulled it.
Nothing.
"Fantastic," I whispered.
A heavy impact hit the library door.
Once.
Twice.
Wood splintered around the lock.
Damian grabbed my hand.
"Fireplace."
"What?"
"Move."
We crossed the room as the third impact cracked the frame.
Damian pushed me behind the stone fireplace column.
The door flew inward.
Two figures entered.
I couldn't see their faces clearly.
One said, "She's not here."
The other answered, "Check everything."
Damian's hand tightened around mine.
Then smoke drifted through the doorway.
At first I thought it came from the fireplace.
Then someone in the hall screamed, "Fire!"
The intruders turned.
That distraction gave Damian seconds.
He used every one.
He pulled me through a narrow servants' passage hidden behind a curtain near the fireplace.
We ran.
Or Damian ran.
I did my best.
The passage was cramped and dark.
My shoulders brushed the walls.
My lungs burned.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Ask me when we're not being hunted."
"Fair."
Behind us, someone shouted.
They'd found the passage.
Damian pushed open a narrow door.
We emerged into a pantry.
Sprinklers had activated.
Water poured from the ceiling.
Staff members were rushing toward the service exit.
I recognized Trevor.
"Elena!"
He grabbed my arm.
"What the hell is happening?"
"I don't know."
His eyes went to Damian.
Recognition replaced confusion.
"You."
Damian ignored him.
"Where's the nearest exterior exit?"
Trevor pointed.
"Kitchen loading bay."
A blast shook the building.
The lights died completely.
Somebody screamed.
Smoke poured beneath the kitchen doors.
Damian looked toward the loading bay.
Then toward the ballroom.
"How many guests?"
"Over two hundred," Trevor said.
Damian cursed quietly.
His phone rang.
He answered.
"Talk."
A voice spoke rapidly.
Damian's face hardened.
"Get civilians out through the west garden. Do not use the front drive."
He hung up.
Trevor stared.
"Who are you?"
"The person telling you not to use the front drive."
Another explosion rattled glass.
Trevor didn't argue.
Neither did I.
We moved.
The kitchen had become chaos.
Cooks.
Servers.
Guests.
Smoke.
Water.
Broken glass.
Damian somehow created order simply by pointing people toward exits.
"West garden."
"Stay together."
"Leave everything."
"Keep moving."
He wasn't shouting.
That made people listen harder.
I helped an older woman who'd lost one shoe.
Trevor guided two kitchen workers.
For several minutes, survival became mechanical.
One foot.
Then another.
Don't think.
Move.
Then I heard crying.
A child.
I stopped.
Damian noticed.
"What?"
"Someone's still back there."
"Elena."
"I heard a kid."
Another cry.
Definitely a child.
I turned toward the smoke.
Damian caught me.
"No."
"There's somebody there."
"I'll go."
"You don't know where."
"I'll find them."
"I'm coming."
His expression said absolutely not.
Mine said try stopping me.
He exhaled.
"Stay behind me."
We found the boy beneath a banquet table.
Maybe seven.
Terrified.
I crawled under.
"Hey."
He backed away.
"It's okay."
"Where's my mom?"
"We'll find her."
The ceiling groaned.
Damian crouched beside me.
"We have to move."
I held out my hand.
The boy took it.
We made it back toward the service corridor.
A woman screamed the child's name.
He ran toward her.
She grabbed him.
Her face crumpled.
"Thank you."
I barely heard her.
Smoke had thickened.
My lungs were starting to hurt.
Damian pointed toward the exit.
"Go."
We were twenty yards away.
Maybe less.
Then part of the ceiling collapsed.
Fire rolled across the passage.
People screamed and scattered.
Damian shoved me backward.
"Other way."
We ran.
This time my body couldn't keep up.
Three hours on my feet.
Smoke.
Adrenaline.
Fear.
My knees were shaking.
"Damian."
He slowed.
"I'm fine."
"You aren't."
"I said I'm fine."
I hated that reflex.
The automatic lie.
Fine meant don't inconvenience anyone.
Fine meant don't become somebody else's problem.
We reached another staircase.
Smoke rose from below.
Damian turned us upward.
"Roof?"
"Maybe."
We climbed.
One flight.
Then another.
My legs burned.
Damian kept checking behind us.
I knew I was slowing him down.
That thought became unbearable.
"Go."
He stopped.
"What?"
"You can move faster without me."
"No."
"Damian—"
"No."
The simplicity of it irritated me.
"You don't get to decide."
"Neither do you."
"This isn't some dramatic movie."
"I'm aware."
"You could die."
"So could you."
"Exactly."
We reached the third floor.
I bent forward, hands on my knees.
"I need ten seconds."
Damian crouched.
"You get five."
"Generous."
He almost smiled.
Then we heard footsteps below.
Not panicked footsteps.
Measured ones.
Coming upward.
Damian's expression changed.
"Move."
We entered the nearest corridor.
Locked doors lined both sides.
Smoke followed us.
I stumbled.
Damian caught me.
My ankle twisted.
Pain shot upward.
I cried out.
"Can you walk?"
"Yes."
I tried.
My leg buckled.
Damian caught me again.
"No."
"I can."
"You can't."
Footsteps were getting closer.
I looked at him.
Then at myself.
All my life, I'd calculated chairs before sitting.
Spaces before entering.
People's expressions before asking for help.
And now the calculation was brutally simple.
Damian was strong.
But I was heavy.
Very heavy.
There was no shame in that fact.
Only physics.
"Leave me."
His eyes narrowed.
"I'm too heavy."
"What?"
"You can't carry me down three floors."
"Watch me."
"Damian."
He crouched.
One arm went behind my back.
The other beneath my knees.
Panic overwhelmed embarrassment.
"No. Seriously. I'm too heavy."
His eyes locked onto mine.
"Then I'll decide what I can carry."
And he lifted.
Not effortlessly.
I felt the strain immediately.
His jaw tightened.
His shoulders flexed.
He adjusted my weight against his chest.
But he stood.
Completely.
With me in his arms.
I stared at him.
He started walking.
"Put me down."
"No."
"You'll hurt yourself."
"Probably."
"This isn't funny."
"I wasn't joking."
I clutched his jacket.
Every step showed effort.
He didn't pretend otherwise.
That mattered somehow.
He wasn't carrying me because I had suddenly become weightless.
He was carrying me despite the weight.
We reached the end of the corridor.
A door stood between us and the north staircase.
Damian shifted me slightly and reached for the handle.
Then stopped.
Someone was standing behind the frosted glass.
A silhouette.
Waiting.
May you like
The person raised one hand.
And tapped three times.
