Chapter 8 - Zane
When I was a teenager, my brother once told me I didn’t care about him.
He didn’t say it like an accusation. To him, it wasn’t one: he was just saying what he believed to be true. He didn’t even look up from his laptop, just remarked that, of course, I didn’t give a shit about what happened to him, not glancing away from his coding even once. He left me to reckon with the reality of what he had come to believe about me, and I said nothing. I couldn’t; I just left.
Very few things in my life since have hurt as much as that did. What Maisie just said is undoubtedly one of them.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t have a clever response. Nothing comes to my lips. I open my mouth to speak, to somehow defuse the bomb she’s just thrown between us, but there is nothing in the space I’d usually draw from, just a void.
Maisie’s eyes seem to plead with me. Say it isn’t true, I imagine her begging. Say I’m wrong. Go on, say it.
A cacophony of noise rings out.
Gunfire splits the air like lightning, followed by screams. Light flashes out of the doors across us. Somewhere, glass shatters, and there is a flurry of movement.
Without thinking, I throw myself toward Maisie, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her to the ground. My body covers hers, shielding her from the chaos erupting inside the ballroom. The high-pitched shriek of glass skittering across a tiled floor fills the night air, punctuated by screaming.
Instinct takes over as I press her closer, her breath hitching beneath me.
"Stay down," I growl, my voice hoarse with urgency. I can feel her fear as she presses against my body. Her pulse hammers against my chest.
We lie there for a long, suspended moment, my heart pounding in my ears. I’m hyper-aware of the curve of her body pressed against mine, the way her fingers clutch my shirt, her breath shallow and quick as she tries to stay calm. I can smell her perfume. It’s light and floral, mixed with the sharp tang of adrenaline and blood in the air.
More shots ring out. The sound ricochets off the marble floors inside, followed by panicked footsteps and the crash of furniture being overturned. Someone shouts an order, a fierce, authoritative bark.
Soon, they’ll sniff us out, too. We can’t stay here.
I pull back just enough to look into her eyes beneath me. Even in the low light, I see the flicker of her fear, but there’s something else there, too, a solidity behind her eyes that speaks of fierce resolution. Maisie’s scared, but she’s not breaking down. She’s holding it together.
"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice barely audible, as I carefully shift off her, still keeping an eye on the doors.
She nods, her lips pressed into a firm line, her eyes sharp with focus. Her shaky breath is hot against my face. We’re closer than we’ve ever been before.
Not yet moving from her, I glance toward the ballroom through the crack in the door. From where we’re hiding on the balcony, I can barely make out what’s happening inside. Spots of blood dot the glass, and voices ricochet from inside, shouting and ordering.
An unfamiliar man in a dark suit prods a kneeling couple in the back with the muzzle of a shotgun, smirking. There are two or three more of them, sweeping through the party, forcing people to their knees. Armed, methodical. Pack members, for sure.
I hear forceful speaking, almost shouting, though from here, I can’t hear all that’s being said. The Haverwood commander—the one who tried to break Maisie not even five minutes ago—paces on the other side of the room, gun slung over one shoulder, hands dark with blood. As he turns, I see his eyes flash with cruel pleasure as a woman pleads on the ground before him, her husband dead at her side.
The opulence of this old, glamorous estate has been permanently splattered with blood. It will never be the same.
"They’ve taken hostages," Maisie whispers, her voice tight with realization.
"Yeah," I mutter grimly. "We need to get out of here. Now."
I help her to her feet, still keeping low. We dart to the side, out of sight of the glass doors. My hand stays wrapped around her arm. Somehow, I can’t let her go.
She looks up at me, her eyes hard. I can see the same question forming between us: How the hell do we get out of this?
We don’t have time to dwell on it. A low voice echoes from inside—a command—followed by more gunfire and a muffled scream.
Maisie flinches at the sound, and I instinctively reach for her hand, pressing her to the corner of the balcony where the shadows are deepest. We crouch low, hidden behind the stone barrier beside the doors, as footsteps approach the glass. Shadows move through the pool of golden light across the stone.
"Zane..." Maisie whispers, her voice tight with fear and urgency. "We can’t go back inside.”
"I know."
I scan the perimeter of the balcony, my mind racing. We’re on the third floor of the mansion. Too high to jump without risking serious injury, but maybe— there.
A narrow ledge runs along the side of the building, just wide enough for us to slip across to the next balcony. It’s a long shot, but it’s our only option.
"See that ledge?" I whisper, nodding toward it.
Maisie’s eyes widen, following my gaze. "Are you serious?"
"It’s that or we wait for them to find us. Your choice."
“I can’t—”
“Maisie, you have to. I’m not letting you die here.”
Her jaw tightens, but she nods. "Alright. Let’s do it."
Before we can move, the glass door beside us swings open.
I shove her back against the wall, pinning us both in the shadows. My arm wraps around her waist, holding her close to keep us hidden. We’re so close now that I can feel the heat of her body pressed against mine, her breath warm against the side of my face.
She’s trembling. I press my hand against her mouth and tuck her face into the crook of my neck so she won’t make a sound. One of her hands balls up in the front of my shirt, clutching me tight.
What sounds like two gunmen step out onto the balcony. They must be scanning the perimeter.
One of them speaks in a low, gravelly voice, clearly reporting back to someone in charge.
"We’ve secured the targets," he mutters into his comm. "Five already. They're transferring funds now."
The second gunman shifts, checking over the balcony railing.
A tinny voice rattles over the comms, male, low: "Good. Send a message. Make them pay. This is our territory now."
"Understood. No survivors if they don’t comply."
Maisie presses closer to me as the second man steps nearer, her breath catching in her throat. I tilt my head down, our faces just inches apart, and for a moment, all I can focus on is her—the way her nostrils flare as she breathes, the flush in her cheeks, the shattered-glass terror in her clear eyes.
“Boss got it wrong. Nobody’s out here,” the second man grunts. “Come on.”
After a few tense seconds, they head back inside. I exhale slowly through my nose, my body locked so tight that, for a moment, I struggle to move.
I release Maisie, and we shuffle apart. I need to get her far away from this place. We stand slowly, both wobbling, Maisie’s legs shaking.
"We have to go, now ," I whisper.
We move quickly, darting toward the ledge. I climb across first, testing the narrow stone footing. It’s slick and barely wide enough for my boots, but it’ll hold.
I reach back for Maisie, gripping her hand tight as I help her onto the ledge.
"Don’t look down," I tell her, my voice steady despite the adrenaline racing through me.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” she murmurs. Her hand in mine is so tight it hurts.
The drop is far, and she is unsteady, but I refuse to look away. If I look away, the fear will take her. She has to know I’m here with her.
Her face is set with determination as she inches along the ledge, her fingers gripping the wall. We move slowly, carefully, every step measured. The drop below is dizzying, and one wrong move would send us plummeting.
We’re almost to the next balcony when Maisie slips.
Her foot skids off the edge, and she lets out a sharp gasp, her hand tightening impossibly in mine.
"I’ve got you," I grit out, pulling her up with more force than necessary, my arm wrapping around her waist to steady her. Her fast, panicky breathing hits my face, hot in the cold night. I could hold her like this forever if I weren’t so terrified of dropping her.
Maybe that’s my problem.
"Thanks," she mutters, her voice strained.
We make it to the next balcony and climb over, collapsing against the wall in a heap of tangled limbs. For a moment, we just lie there, catching our breath. My arm is still around her, her body pressed against mine.
Distantly, three more gunshots ring out, then another. There is a haunting echo of cruel laughter across the air.
I force myself to pull back, the reality of the situation snapping back into focus. We don’t have time for this. I can’t afford to lose control, not now, not with her.
"We need to keep moving," I say, my voice gruffer than I intended. "We’re not safe yet."
Maisie nods. I help her to her feet and we peer through the glass doors. In our first lucky moment all night, we have made it to an empty room. The unoccupied dining room, its table covered in uneaten food, laid out ready for guests who will never eat it.
We slip through the suite, two disjointed shadows. Maisie’s flat, expensive shoes click on the floor, and she kicks them off so as to move silently, sticking close to my back.
Guards must be patrolling the hallways. When we make it to the corridors, we move slowly. It’s a labyrinth of dark rooms and opulent staircases, but we know the layout well enough from our intel. We move silently, every step deliberate, as we make our way toward the exit.
Maisie says nothing. She follows me with a trust I didn’t earn. I wonder whether now she will hate me. I wonder whether she always did.
When we finally reach the back door, I check our surroundings—it’s clear on the lawn. I spot a lineup of black, unmarked cars lined up on the grass in the distance, abandoned. I can’t see them from here, but I’d bet money those are North Dakota license plates.
I pull Maisie into the dark, and we break into a run, sprinting across the manicured lawns toward the forest that borders the estate. If we break through it, we can reach our car. The cool night air burns in my lungs, but the only thing I care about is getting her out of here alive.
We don’t stop until we’re deep in the cover of the trees, hidden from sight. The soundless night surrounds us, eerier even than the gunshots and screaming.
Maisie turns to me as we move, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it. Clearly, she can think of nothing to say.
“We have to get back to Stratfell,” I say. “They’re moving more boldly than we could have imagined. We need to tell the pack, we need to figure out what comes next.”
Maisie nods. Still, the rest of the way to the car and off the estate, she fails to say a single word.