Page 145 of Kill for a Kiss

Closer to the walls, by the velvet-curtained vents, more bodies crumple, their hands clawing weakly at the air. The scent of wine, wax, and sickened sweat thickens.

A horrified scream cuts through the heavy air, high and haunting, and then another, rising like sirens under the glittering lights. The ballroom becomes the complete chaos Clo clearly envisioned.

She watches from the railing, grinning wildly. Distracted by her victory, she loosens her hand over my mouth. I won’t let her win.

Fueled by vengeful fury—and despite my drugged body—I sink my teeth into her hand, tasting blood and feeling the brittle snap of her fingernail as she wrenches back with a hiss.

I gasp, dragging in a breath and scream. “Run!” My voice tears from my throat, raw and ragged. “It’s in the air! It’s in the wine!”

The gala erupts into further chaos. Masks slide off frantic faces. Gowns rip as they trip guests. Suits tear open at the seams. People claw at each other in blind panic, the scent of terror rising heavier than any perfume. The chandeliers sway wildly above from the thunderous stampede of desperate people outrunning death, throwing shattered light across the floors slick with spilled wine and broken glass.

Clo stays standing at the top of the spiraling staircase, blood on her hand, and her mouth twisted with what I’ve come to know as her pride and rage.

And somewhere in all of this unsettling catastrophe, I feel a pull. That steady burning thrum beneath my chest. A growl cuts throughthe noise. I turn to the source of the sound, a voice I know all too well. I hear it like he’s my own heartbeat.Becauseheismy heartbeat.

Sterling breaks through from the room of mirrors, maskless and looking unstoppable. A broken lantern swings from his hand, the oil sloshing thick and dark.

He slips between shadows with ease, the way he always does. The dying flames from the cracked lantern in his hand flicker up the glass as though they want out.

Time bends around him. My lungs forget how to move. Our eyes find each other. Smoke blurs the edges, but the center holds. One look. And I remember how to breathe.

He sees me. Not the blood on my lips, not the ropes around me.Me. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to. He sees me bound but not broken. His eyes flutter, hesitation briefly flashing. But I nod, trusting him. His jaw tightens. That’s all he needs.

He rips the cap from the lantern and hurls it at the velvet curtains that line the far wall. The small flames die as soon as the oil splashes across the curtains. In a blink of an eye, he strikes a match against his belt, the flame catching fast. The match leaves his hand, landing onto the velvet wall.

The curtains explode into flame, bright and unforgiving. Heat slams through the air in a roaring blaze.

Sterling stands framed in the inferno, silver hair glowing, skin painted red by the firelight. His mouth curls into a snarl. He is rage, ruin, and salvation. And I love him so fiercely I feel it everywhere as if it were the fire growing furiously around us.

Screams rise as the fire devours the curtains, then climbs across the walls, racing through velvet and wood. Clo yells, but I can barely hear her over the roar of the fire.

Sterling doesn’t even glance her way. He yanks a second lantern from its hook and smashes it against the marble. Oil spills down thecarpeted steps in dark ribbons. He strikes another match, drops it into the stream, and the fire answers in a rush. It swallows each step as it creeps down. The crowd must see the growing flames as they flee faster in all directions.

Gunfire cracks through the smoke and the screams. I glance down. Lix strides swiftly, gun in hand, angled up toward the chandeliers. He’s clearing the room, herding them away from the sound of his barreling bullets. More glass rains down on us.

Kaye surges through the smoke, her long hair whipping through the air as she grabs Stan’s arm. They start pulling people toward the open doors. Stan shouts, face lit with manic joy. Kaye shoves him forward, her eyes locked on the guests, her mouth moving fast, commanding order in the panic.

At a far corner, Damon appears, cold-eyed and controlled. His laptop’s tucked under one arm as he barks out commands to the few staff still upright. His voice cuts cleanly through the noise.

The crowd thins as the guests pour through the exits, some coughing from the Kys, others breathless with fear.

And through it all, the mansion burns. Every chandelier, every velvet-draped column, every polished floorboard—it all goes up in flame. Sterling stands at its center, watching each flicker of fire. And now, I’m watching him.

Until I try to reach him, realizing there are still ropes on my wrists, and the heat’s drawing sweat out of my trembling Kys-laced body.

Fire climbs higher, tracing its path toward me. I eye the flames creeping across. I drag the ropes against the edge of the nearest burning curtain. The fibers catch. The pain floods hot and hissing. The smoke stings my eyes. My fingers shake, but I keep going. The ropes smolder and break. They fall away in scorched ribbons.

I stagger to my feet, pulse crashing in my ears. But before I can take a single step, three masked figures stagger forward. Their movementsstutter, arms limp, eyes glazed. I see a bigger crowd forming around Sterling.

In front of me, one of them stumbles closer, reaching out to grab me. His fingers twitch more in confusion than menace. There must be Kys in these people too.

I plant my feet. Kaye’s voice echoes in memory. Sterling’s lessons flash through muscle. “Please stay back,” I rasp.

But they keep coming. So I strike the first low punch in the ribs, pivot into the second with a sharp hook. My knuckles burn. The third lunges. I duck and drive my elbow into his gut. He drops. None of them rise. Their bodies curl in on themselves, shaking but alive.

I breathe hard. Smoke burns down my throat. I haul one upright, then another, waving at the other figures still by the entrance. Someone will help. Someone has to.

When the others move to take them, I step back. That’s when I see her. Clo stands frozen at the top of the stairs. She looks nothing like the woman who greeted this night with a toast. Her shoulders slope inward. Her hands tremble faintly at her sides. Her crown of curls have begun to fray, strands rebelling loose like they too refuse to obey her anymore. She looks hollow, splintered from the inside.