CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
The door slams open so hard the hinges scream.
Shoomaker storms into the surveillance room, porcelain mask clenched in one fist, his coat—the Warden’s coat—still hanging off his shoulders like armor he isn’t ready to shed.
He doesn’t look surprised.
He looks furious.
“Turn off the goddamn feed,” he snaps at Montgomery without looking at him.
Montgomery stays still, arms crossed, jaw locked
But I am already moving.
“You son of a bitch!” I lunge forward, fists flying. The fury inside me has teeth, claws, years of buried screams. “You knew! You knew what they did to me—who sold me!”
He doesn’t try to dodge the first hit. My fist cracks against his shoulder, hard enough to sting.
“Starling—”
“No! Don’t say my name like you have the right!”
The second time, I go for his throat.
He catches me.
Fast.
Too fast.
With a twist of motion, I am shoved back, spine colliding with the concrete wall, his body caging mine before I can strike again.
I pant, rage pulsing in my ears like war drums. My hands ball into fists as he presses my arms above my head.
His face is inches from mine.
“I. Didn’t. Know.” His voice is low. Hoarse. Laced with something broken. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”
I struggle against him, barely. My body doesn’t know whether to fight or fold.
“Don’t lie to me,” I hiss.
“I’m not.” His forehead dips closer to mine, not touching, just hovering. “If I’d known…if I even suspected your father had anything to do with Hirsh or Shaimez, I would’ve—”
“What?” I whisper, my breath catching. “What would you have done, Warden?”
He flinches. “That isn’t fair, Starling.”
But he doesn’t move.
He holds me there—threat and accusation catching between us like static.
“I would’ve killed him,” he says finally. “I would’ve buried him with my bare hands and taken you out of that hell myself before any of them ever touched you.”
His voice cracks on the last word.
I look up at him.
Really look.
And for once, he isn’t hiding behind the mask. He isn’t playing the Warden. Isn’t barking orders or twisting pain into power.
He is just a man. Unraveled. Stripped bare. Pleading with his eyes like the truth lives in them.
And damn me—
I believe him.
I feel the resistance in my limbs melt, the storm stilling just enough for clarity to cut through the chaos.
I stop struggling.
I exhale.
His hands still pin mine to the wall above my head. Shoulders tense. Breath shaky. Like he expects another strike, or worse.
But I don’t move to fight.
Instead, I slowly uncurl my fists.
He lets go. Not all at once, but gently—like releasing something he isn’t quite ready to give up. My arms drop to my sides as I take in the heat between us. The inches. The heartbeat. The way his gaze begs me to believe him again.
I place a single hand against his chest.
His heart thunders under my palm.
Just like mine.
“I’m sorry, Starling,” he says softly.
The apology dies in the air as his hand slides from my waist to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling firmly in my hair. His heart doesn't just thunder now; it echoes with a sudden, sharp intent.
“Don’t be sorry,” I whisper, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Just don’t stop fighting for me…with me.”
His hands find my waist, his grip firm and possessive, as if he’s trying to fuse our shadows together.
“Dammit, my little survivor,” he breathes, his voice thick with a dark, protective promise. “I will fight for you and with you until my dying breath. You’re the only thing that matters in this godforsaken world to me.”
Then, he stops talking.
His forehead drops to mine. Just a brush. Barely there. But it shatters something small and quiet inside me—something I'd sealed off a long time ago.
He tilts my head back and crushes his mouth to mine. It isn't a gentle kiss; it’s a collision. It tastes of desperation, of years of hidden watching, and a fierce, alpha need to mark me as his own. His tongue slides against mine, demanding and deep.
Then I hear it.
A chair scrapes.
A sharp inhale behind me.
I stiffen.
Because I’d forgotten we aren’t alone.
I pull away slowly—eyes meeting Montgomery’s across the surveillance monitors.
He is still. Too still. Elbows resting on the table, hands clenched, as if they’ve been that way the entire time. And maybe they have. Maybe he’s watched it all—Shoomaker storming in, pressing me to the wall, whispering apologies like confessions, staking his claim.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Montgomery says, voice flat. But the fury behind it cracks like static in the room. “Really. That was a moment.”
Shoomaker doesn’t move from where he stands.
I take a breath. “Montgomery—”
“NO,” he growls, rising to his feet. The intensity radiating off him is palpable, a physical weight in the room that tells me exactly how much this is turning him on.
“I want to hear this. I want to hear how the man who thrived on being a monster suddenly thinks he’s earned the right to be a saint. ”
“Don’t,” Shoomaker says tightly.
The air in the room turns heavy, vibrating with a tension so thick I can almost taste the ozone. Montgomery laughs once—a dark, sharp sound that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
“What? You don’t like the mirror being held up?” he taunts, his gaze bouncing between us.
“I said don’t,” Shoomaker repeats.
Montgomery takes a predatory step forward, his eyes narrowing as he watches Shoomaker’s hand on me. “You put your hands on her like you own her again,” he says, his voice dropping to a jagged, lethal edge, “and we’ll finish what we started in that office.”
Shoomaker’s voice drops. “Is that what you want? You want me to show you yet again how it is done?”
The room feels like it’s closing in on itself—every word, every breath sharpening the air until it’s almost unbearable.
Montgomery is still standing, Shoomaker still locked in place, the two of them circling something neither of them is willing to name.
I take one step forward.
Then another.
And I don’t look at either of them at first.
That’s what makes them both stop talking.
Silence lands hard—heavier than the argument that came before it.
Slowly, I turn my head between them.
“Enough,” my voice cracking.
Montgomery’s jaw tightens like he wants to argue it apart. Shoomaker’s hand flexes once at his side, restrained, controlled—but neither of them speaks.
But I stop in front of him.
“I’m not a prize to be measured by who gets closer,” I say, glaring between them. “I don’t need either of you staking claims like you haven’t both lied to me.”
Neither speak.
But the heat in the room doesn’t fade.
I turn to Montgomery, slower this time, knowing my words will cut. “Yes. He pushed me. But he also told me the truth. You? You’ve been slipping under every radar with a smile like you’re not just as deep in it.”
Montgomery flinches—just barely but I see it.
I step toward the monitors and let the glow of the screens light my face.
“I came here to finish this. Not to play out some twisted love triangle with men who treat me like a warzone.”
Silence thickens.
And then I add, without looking back, “I know what’s at stake now. And neither of you gets to protect me from it anymore.”
Shoomaker’s voice is low behind me. “Starling—”
“Save it,” I say.
Then I turn and walk out.
Because this time, I’m not running from them.
I am walking straight into war.