Chapter 40
CHAPTER 40
The scene in the garages was chaos, but it was the kind of chaos fueled by adrenaline and a shared purpose: survival. People clamored for their keys, shouting car makes and models to the overwhelmed parking attendants who were desperately trying to match them to the neat rows of labeled hooks on the wall. Keys flew through the air as attendants tossed them to waiting hands, and drivers shouted out offers of rides to anyone who needed one.
“Take as many as you can fit!” someone called, their voice terrified.
Russ stood at the edge of the fray, his jaw tight as his eyes darted around, searching for one person.
Hillary.
He turned in circles, scanning every face, every cluster of people, but she wasn’t there. His chest tightened, and a gnawing sense of dread began to creep in. She was supposed to be here. She had to be here.
“Where the hell are you, Hillary?” he muttered under his breath, his fists clenching.
He moved back to the large bay door to look out. Something caught his eye—a flash of movement far beyond the garages, out near the faint orange glow of the fire. Two figures, struggling against each other, moving back toward the house. His stomach dropped as the truth slammed into him like a freight train.
It was Hillary. And Michael.
“Damn it,” Russ growled, his breath catching in his throat. He felt like his blood had turned to ice, but the fury boiling beneath it pushed him forward.
Madame Fournier’s voice startled him as she appeared at his side, her calm demeanor shattered by the night’s events. “Russ,” she said urgently, placing a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong? We need to keep getting people out. They’re almost ready to leave.”
Russ shook her off, his eyes still fixed on the distant figures. “He’s got Hillary,” he said, his voice low and tight. “Michael’s dragging her back toward the fire.”
Madame Fournier’s eyes widened, her lips parting in shock. “What? No. That can’t be?—”
“I saw them,” Russ snapped, already moving toward the garage door. “I’m not letting him take her.”
“Russ!” Madame Fournier called after him, but he was already gone, his long strides eating up the distance as he bolted toward the struggling figures.
Every breath felt like fire in his chest, but he didn’t slow down. The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he sprinted, his focus narrowing to a single point: Hillary. He could see her now, her form slumped against Michael’s arm, her steps uneven as he dragged her closer to the house. She looked injured—her dress torn, her hair matted with soot and sweat. The sight made Russ’s vision blur with rage.
Michael looked feral, his movements erratic, his face lit with the eerie glow of the fire. He was muttering something, his grip on Hillary unyielding as she twisted weakly in his hold.
Russ’s heart pounded as the distance between them closed. His mind burned with a single, unshakable thought : I’m going to kill him.
He didn’t call out. He didn’t want to give Michael the chance to tighten his grip or do something reckless. Instead, he moved silently, his footsteps muffled by the soft grass as he veered off the gravel path to approach from the side.
They were only a few yards from the grand stone steps leading up to the inferno of the house when Russ made his move.
“Hillary!” he shouted, his voice a thunderclap in the chaos.
Both heads turned. Hillary’s wide, desperate eyes met his, and she opened her mouth to call out, but no sound came. Michael’s face twisted into something grotesque—a mixture of anger and triumph.
“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” Michael sneered, his grip tightening on Hillary’s arm.
Russ didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His legs pumped harder, his fists clenched at his sides as he closed the final gap between them. Michael barely had time to react before Russ barreled into him, his shoulder driving into Michael’s chest with enough force to knock him off balance.
Hillary stumbled back, falling to her knees as Russ and Michael went down in a tangle of limbs. The heat from the fire was unbearable now, the roar of the flames drowning out all other sound. But Russ didn’t care. All he could think about was the man beneath him, the man who had dared to hurt Hillary, who had dared to hurt any of them.
Michael twisted, his elbow jamming into Russ’s ribs, but Russ didn’t let go. He landed a solid punch to Michael’s jaw, the impact reverberating through his arm.
Michael spat blood, his lips curling into a sinister smile even as he struggled beneath Russ’s weight.
“Hillary, run!” Russ shouted, his voice strained as he fought to keep Michael pinned.
But she didn’t move. She was still on her knees, her hands clutching at the ground as if trying to steady herself. Her face was pale, her breaths shallow, but her eyes burned with determination.
“Hillary!” Russ bellowed again. “Go!”
Michael raged and rolled with fury until he’d flung Russ off him. He had his eyes set back on Hillary, who’d done her best to crawl away. For a moment it looked as though Michael would reach her again. Until they all heard the noise.