Chapter 18 Julian
It is quiet for one perfect second, the only sound Amara’s breathing and the crackle of Westpoint devouring itself. Then the first scream erupts, and the spell is broken.
Then Isolde crumples, folding in on herself with a gasp before water falls from between her legs. Rhett is beside her before the sound has finished, hands bracing her back, his face morphing from post-violence glory to abject terror.
“Shit,” he panics. “Shit. Shit. Fuck. She’s in labor. It’s happening now.”
Isolde’s mouth twists into a snarl. She tries to laugh, fails, then punches Rhett in the shoulder. “No shit, Einstein.” Her breath is coming fast, sweat already beading her brow.
The others freeze, staring, and for the first time since tonight began, uncertainty creeps into their faces. Bam drops the gas can, forgetting it, and stands stupidly with his hands out, as if he might catch a baby that falls from the sky.
The screaming from students standing dumbly the quad rises in pitch. Fire engines sound in the distance. The orange glow behind us has become a full-fledged inferno, shadows skittering along the lawn.
Rhett tries to scoop Isolde up. She bats him away, but he ignores her and half-drags, half-carries her toward the road.
“Somebody call a fucking ambulance!” Eve yells, brandishing her phone and fumbling with the screen.
“No, get… me in the truck. Faster.” Issy groans.
Rhett keeps going toward his truck. Colton follows, Eve in tow. Bam lopes after, holding Dahlia’s hand. Caius watches them go, then turns to us, expression impassive.
“Guess I’ll head to the cabin and make food and grab beer.” He runs his hand through his hair. “O is gunna wanna know she’s about to be an aunt, anyway.”
I squeeze Amara’s hand. Her pulse is wild, arrhythmic. Her other hand trembles, though her face is still blank, eyes locked on the retreating figures of our friends. I lean in, nose to her ear.
“We’re not going with them,” I say.
She doesn’t move, but I feel her stiffen, the tension shivering through our joined hands. She’s in freefall, and she doesn’t even know it.
I press my lips to the curve of her jaw, tasting sweat, soot, the ghost of her father’s blood.
She turns to me, at last. “Why not?”
“They’ll be fine.” I jerk my chin toward the others,, Isolde swearing like a drill sergeant as Rhett manhandles her into the truck. “We have better places to be.”
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial a number I memorized when I was twelve years old. It rings once, twice.
“Mr. Roth.” The voice on the other end is precise, bored. My father’s assistant, old regime, still loyal to the end.
“I need a car. Two passengers, South Gate, immediate pickup. Unmarked. And a go-bag, pack for both of us, including the burners.”
“Understood,” the voice says, and hangs up.
Amara watches me. “Is it safe where we’re going?”
I run my thumb along the ridges of her knuckles. “Nothing is safe. But it’s over.”
She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t do anything, really. The night has hollowed her out. I can see it in the way she stands, the way her chest barely rises with breath.
We walk.
There is no need for stealth now. The world is on fire, and we move through it like wraiths. Every shadow is running from us.
At the South Gate, a car idles—a black S-Class, windows tinted to opacity, engine vibrating quietly. The driver stands beside the door, gloved hands folded over his crotch, gaze fixed on a point somewhere above my head.
He doesn’t look at our clothes, or the splashes of red and brown dried on us. He doesn’t even look at the burning building in the back. He bows at the exact angle required by protocol, and opens the rear door.
I usher Amara in first. She slides across the seat, legs unsteady as she tucks them under herself. I follow, slamming the door behind us. The interior smells like cold air and leather and nothing else. I relax.
The driver gets in, glances back in the mirror. “Destination?”
“The Conrad, downtown. Penthouse, if it’s available. Run the card for damages.”
He nods, and we glide away from the curb, from Westpoint, from the smoldering wreck of every legacy that ever tried to claim us.
I look at Amara.
She’s still facing the window, still staring. The campus is a shrinking pyre in the distance, glass and stone crumpling into itself like a dying star. The lights of emergency vehicles flicker blue and red on her face, but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.
I reach for her hand. Her fingers are stiff, almost frozen. I squeeze until I feel her pulse jump again.
She doesn’t speak. Not for the first ten minutes, not as we cross the bridge into the city, not as the sun paints the towers orange and gold.
She is somewhere else.
I wait.
When we hit the business district, the driver’s phone buzzes. He answers it in a low murmur, then glances at me in the mirror. “Anything else, sir?”
“Yes. Stop at the mall, or wherever’s open. Get us clothing. Wipe the inside of the car when we’re out.”
He nods, unbothered.
We pull up at a side entrance to the Conrad. The lobby is deserted, too early for the real crowd, only a skeletal staff behind the marble desk. The driver opens the door for us, gestures us inside.
We walk in, hand in hand, leaving a trail of damp footprints across the tile.
The girl at the front desk stares, not at our faces but at the blood on my shirt, at the muddy hem of Amara’s ruined dress. She looks like she might call security, but then she looks at the black card in my hand and decides to let someone else die on that hill.
“Mr. Roth,” she says, voice quivering, “we have your suite ready. Would you like assistance with—”
“No.” I stare at her until her eyes skitter away. “Just the keys.”
She slides two plastic cards across the desk. “Penthouse is on the top floor. The elevator requires access.”
I nod, take the keys, and pull Amara toward the elevator bay.
She walks like she’s dreaming, each step an afterthought. In the elevator, she leans against the wall, head back, eyes on the ceiling as I swipe my card.
The doors close, and for the first time, we are alone.
I watch her.
She stares at the red stains on her skin, at the places where blood has dried in the lines of her palms. I think she might be crying, but when I look closer her eyes are dry.
I want to say something clever. Something that will cauterize the wound. Instead, I just watch her fall apart, slow and elegant, the way a perfect building collapses under its own weight.
The elevator dings. The doors open onto a hallway that smells like money and bleach. The carpet is white. The walls are white. Everything is white except for us.
I guide her to the suite. The key clicks, the door swings open, and we step inside.
The room is made for people who have never seen dirt. Every surface gleams, polished to a shine so perfect it hurts the eyes. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline. There is a terrace, a hot tub, a bed big enough to drown in.
Amara stops in the center of the room. She stands there, dripping, leaving a stain on the pale carpet.
I shut the door.
We are safe. For the first time, we are safe.
And she has no fucking idea what to do with it.
I set the go-bag on the table and dig out a clean towel, then cross to her, slow and deliberate. When I reach her, I press the towel to the mess on her hands and say, “We should get you cleaned up.”
She blinks, lashes spiking together, and for a second she looks like she might refuse. But she doesn’t. She lifts her hands and lets me wipe them, lets me blot the blood from her knuckles and the undersides of her fingers, lets me touch her skin like it’s mine to fix.
Her voice is a splinter. “Shouldn’t we—shouldn’t we check on Isolde?”
I let the towel fall to the floor, streaked red. “She’ll be fine. Rhett will call when there’s news. They’re all together.”
She looks at me, and the fear is back, pale and naked. “What if she’s not?”
I step closer, trapping her against the window. The glass is cold on her back, but my hands are not.
“She’s not our problem anymore, Amara.” I keep my voice soft. “Let them have their happy ending. We have ours.”
She lets out a shuddering breath. I want to eat it, swallow the doubt and replace it with something permanent.
The city spreads below us, a grid of movement and color, entirely unaware of the carnage we left behind. I cup her cheek, thumb tracing the edge of her jaw, and tilt her face up so she has to see me, has to see exactly what she’s chosen.
I watch her eyes. They’re still blue, but the shade has changed.
“Take off your dress,” I say.
She hesitates. Her hands flutter at the hem, caught between modesty and obedience. I don’t wait. I grip the neckline and pull, tearing the seam. The fabric peels away, ruined, and I let it drop to the floor.
She stands naked, skin marbled with goosebumps, eyes huge and wet.
I want to fuck her right now, want to push her into the glass and leave a permanent print of her body on the world, but instead I step back and strip off my own shirt, my own pants, tossing them on top of hers.
The air bites at my skin. It feels good.
Note to self: burn these.
I take her hand and lead her to the bathroom. The tub is big enough to drown in, set into a platform of white marble, with brass fixtures and a view of the city. I turn on the water, hot as it goes, and watch steam fill the air. Rummaging around, I find bubbles, epsom salts and a bath bomb.
Having money pays when it comes to things like this.
I step into the tub first, settling back, then pull her after me. She hesitates, toes the water, then sinks in, hissing at the heat.
We lay, side by side, silent except for the slosh of water and the distant murmur of traffic twenty stories below.
Repositioning her so she’s between my legs, I reach for the soap, squeeze a mound into my palm, and start at her neck. I scrub the dried blood away, careful not to break the skin. I work down her arms, over her chest, along her thighs.