Page 108 of Infamous

The beeping is erratic.

The line trembles.

“Come back to me, Nadia,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “You hear me? You don’t leave me like this. Not again.”

When the monitors flatline, I stop breathing.

And when they bring her back with a jolt, I drop to my knees and start to pray.

Not for mercy.

Not for forgiveness.

Just for her.

Because the world can take everything else.

It can take my name, my peace, my goddamn soul.

But if it takes Nadia too - then it’s me they’ll need to bury next.

63

LUCIAN

The world is red.

Not from the blood on my hands, though there’s plenty of that. Not from the emergency lights still pulsing outside the ranch. It’s red because I can’t see anything else. Not Scar’s men clearing rooms, not Mason barking orders - none of it.

All I see is Nadia.

Still.

Cold.

Barely breathing when I left her with the medics.

And Kellerman.

Kellerman is slumped against the far wall of the basement, hands zip-tied behind his back, mouth swollen and split from the first hit. There’s blood in his teeth and smugness in his eyes. He looks like a man who’s convinced he’s untouchable.

He’s wrong.

I crouch in front of him, elbows on my knees. I want him to look me in the eye when I end him. “You’re going to tell me everything,” I say. My voice is calm, too calm, the kind that onlycomes when you realize you have nothing left to lose but your rage.

He grins - or tries to. “You think you scare me?” His tone is hoarse but still carries that sick superiority of a man who’s spent too long thinking his white coat makes him untouchable. “You have no idea the kind of men you’re messing with.”

“Doubt it,” I say, and drive my fist into his jaw. His head cracks against the wall. He coughs, spits blood, and keeps smiling.

My knuckles split against his face before I even realize I’ve swung again. He hits the floor, cheekbone blooming red. I haul him back up by the throat, his feet scraping against the tile.

“What did you feed her? What the hell did you put in her veins?”

He gags, gasps for air. “Relax,” he coughs. “It wasn’t poison. A mild sedative. Hallucinogens. Dopamine stimulants. The good stuff. I wanted her pliant, not dead.”

I freeze, disgust clawing up my spine. “Why? Why would you drug her like that?”

He tilts his head, eyes glassy but still full of arrogance. “Because she’s brilliant,” he says simply. “You think I was going to kill her? No. I needed her. Her mind. The things she could do in the operating room. She would have been my partner, once the resistance wore off.”