Chapter 44
I grab Declan's shirt and pull him toward the doorway as the first chunk of ceiling crashes where we were standing.
"Move."
He stumbles. His weight sags against me and I realize he's worse off than he's letting on. The blood soaking through his jacket isn't slowing down.
"Sloane—"
"Save it."
We make it three steps before the floor buckles. I throw us both sideways into what used to be a conference room. The doorframe splinters behind us. Dust chokes the air so thick I can't see my hand in front of my face.
Declan coughs. The wet sound of it makes my stomach drop.
"Where are you hit?"
"It does not matter."
"Yeah, no. That's not how this works." I run my hands over his torso, feeling for the wound. He flinches when I hit his left side. My fingers come away warm and sticky. "How bad?"
"I have had worse."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I am an excellent liar." He catches my wrist. "You just know me too well."
The building groans. Something massive shifts overhead.
"We need to move," I say.
"In a moment."
"We don't have a moment."
"Then I will be quick." His grip tightens on my wrist. "What I said before—"
"Declan."
"I meant it."
"I know you did." I pull free and grab his arm, hauling him to his feet. "Which is why we're getting out of here so you can say it again when we're not about to die."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a 'shut up and move.'"
His laugh turns into another cough. More blood. Too much blood.
The emergency lighting kicks on, bathing everything in red. Through the broken windows I can see the street below. We're four stories up. Maybe five. The stairwell we came up is gone, buried under rubble.
"There." Declan points to the far corner where a service ladder leads up to the roof access. "If we can reach the roof—"
"Then what? We jump?"
"I am open to suggestions."
Another explosion rocks the building. This one's closer. My father's voice echoes through the PA system, the recording on loop: "If you are hearing this, I am dead. And if I am dead, then everything burns."
"Your father was thorough," Declan says.
"He was a lot of things."
We start toward the ladder. The floor tilts beneath us, a sickening lurch that sends office furniture sliding toward the windows. I catch Declan before he goes down, bracing us both against a support column.
"I can make it," he says.
"Sure you can."
"I am not going to slow you down."
"Not my circus." I loop his arm over my shoulders. "But you're definitely my monkey."
"That does not make sense."
"Nothing about tonight makes sense."
We're halfway to the ladder when I hear it. Footsteps. Slow, measured, completely at odds with the chaos around us.
Garrett Voss steps through the smoke like he's walking into a board meeting.
His hands are still zip-tied behind his back. There's not a speck of dust on his suit.
"Sloane Carrigan." He smiles that wide, friendly smile that makes my skin crawl. "I have to say, I'm impressed. Killing your own father takes a certain kind of strength."
"Get out of our way."
"I would, but we have unfinished business." He tilts his head, studying Declan. "Declan Thorne. You look terrible. That wound needs medical attention."
"I will manage."
"Will you?" Garrett takes a step closer. "I don't think so. I give you ten minutes. Maybe fifteen if you're lucky."
My wolf surges forward, pushing against my skin. The change wants to come. My father's blood is still on my hands and the beast inside me is hungry for more.
"Sloane." Declan's voice is quiet. "Do not."
"He's in our way."
"He wants you to shift. Look at him."
I do. Garrett's smile has gotten wider. His eyes are bright with anticipation.
"Smart man," Garrett says. "She shifts, she loses control. Loses herself. Becomes exactly what her father wanted her to be."
"I am nothing like my father."
"Aren't you?" He gestures at the destruction around us. "He built all this. The dead man's switch. The recordings. He knew you'd kill him eventually. He was counting on it."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? Marcus Carrigan spent twenty years turning you into a weapon. And tonight, you finally pulled the trigger." Garrett's smile never wavers. "He won, Sloane. Even dead, he won."
I lunge for him.
Declan catches me, his grip surprisingly strong for someone bleeding out. "That is what he wants."
"I don't care."
"Yes, you do." He turns me to face him. "You care. That is the difference between you and your father. That is the difference between you and him."
Garrett laughs. "Touching. Really. But we're running out of time." He glances at the ceiling. "This building has maybe five minutes before it comes down completely. You can waste those minutes fighting me, or you can run."
"Why are you still here?" I ask.
"Excellent question." He holds up his bound wrists. The zip tie snaps like thread. "I wanted to see what you'd choose."
"Choose?"
"Him or yourself." Garrett nods at Declan. "You can't carry him and climb that ladder. Not fast enough. So what's it going to be?"
The building shudders. Somewhere below us, another floor gives way.
"Go," Declan says.
"No."
"Sloane—"
"I said no."
"I am not going to make it regardless." His hand finds my face again, thumb tracing the scar through my eyebrow. "But you can. You should."
"That's not happening."
"Why not?"
"Because—" The words stick in my throat. "Because you're an idiot who showed up here to save me even though you were dying. Because you said you loved me and I didn't get to say it back."
His eyes widen. "Sloane—"
"So no. I am not leaving you here." I grab his hand. "We both go or we both stay."
Garrett slow-claps. "Beautiful. Truly. But also stupid." He starts toward us. "Let me make this easier for you."
He moves fast. Faster than anything human should move. One second he's ten feet away, the next his hand is around Declan's throat, lifting him off the ground.
"Stop—"
"You want to save him?" Garrett's smile is gone now. "Then shift. Show me what Marcus made you. Show me the monster."
Declan's face is turning purple. His hands claw at Garrett's grip.
The wolf inside me howls.
"That's it," Garrett says. "I can see it in your eyes. You're right there. Just let go."
My bones start to crack. The change is coming whether I want it or not. My father's blood singing in my veins, calling to the beast.
"Sloane." Declan's voice is barely a whisper. "Do not... let him..."
I look at Declan. At the man who came here to die for me. Who told me he loved me in what he thought were his last moments. Who sees me—really sees me—and doesn't flinch.
The wolf stops howling.
"No," I say.
Garrett frowns. "What?"
"I said no." I meet his eyes. "You want to see a monster? You're looking at the wrong person."
I don't shift. I don't change. I just move.
My father taught me to fight before he taught me to shift. Taught me that sometimes the human form is deadlier than the wolf because humans can be unpredictable. Humans can lie.
I grab the piece of rebar jutting from the rubble and swing it at Garrett's knee. He drops Declan to block, which is what I wanted. Declan hits the ground gasping and I'm already moving, driving the rebar toward Garrett's throat.
He catches it. His hand closes around the metal and squeezes. The rebar crumples like aluminum foil.
"Cute," he says.
Then he backhands me across the room.
I hit the wall hard enough to crack the drywall. Stars explode across my vision. Blood fills my mouth.
Garrett walks toward me, unhurried. "I gave you a chance. I really did. But if you won't shift willingly—"
The gunshot cuts him off.
Garrett looks down at the hole in his chest, surprised. Then he looks past me, toward the broken window.
I turn.
Declan is on his knees, my father's gun in his hand. The one I dropped when the building started coming down. He fires again. And again. Each shot precise, controlled, exactly where it needs to be.
Garrett staggers back. "That's... not possible..."
"You talk too much," Declan says, and shoots him again.
Garrett goes down. Not dead—I can hear his heartbeat, rapid and erratic—but down.
Declan lowers the gun. His hand is shaking. "We need to go. Now."
I pull myself up. Everything hurts but nothing feels broken. "Can you climb?"
"I will have to."
We make it to the ladder. Declan goes first because if he falls I can catch him. Each rung is agony—I can see it in the way he moves, the way he breathes. But he doesn't stop.
The roof access is locked. I kick it open. Fresh air hits my face and for a second I think we might actually make it.
Then I see what's waiting for us on the roof.
Three wolves. Big ones. Their eyes reflect the emergency lights, turning them into demons.
"Sloane Carrigan." The middle one shifts, bones cracking and reforming until a woman stands where the wolf was. She's naked, unconcerned, and smiling. "Your father sends his regards."
"My father is dead."
"Is he?" She tilts her head. "Are you sure about that?"
The building lurches. We're out of time.
"Move," I say.
"I don't think so." The woman gestures and the other two wolves spread out, flanking us. "Marcus Carrigan paid us very well to make sure you didn't leave this building. Dead or alive, he said. Though he did express a preference for alive."
"He's dead," I repeat. "I killed him myself."
"Did you check for a pulse?"
My stomach drops.
"Oh, Sloane." The woman's smile widens. "You really thought it would be that easy? Your father has been preparing for this night since you were born. Did you honestly believe a bullet would stop him?"
Behind us, I hear movement in the stairwell. Footsteps. Slow, dragging, but definitely coming closer.
"That's not possible," Declan says.
"With enough money, anything is possible." The woman shifts her weight, ready to spring. "Now. Are you going to come quietly, or do we do this the hard way?"
I look at Declan. At the blood soaking through his jacket. At the way he's swaying on his feet.
"The hard way," I say.
The woman laughs. "I was hoping you'd say that."
The wolves attack.
I shift mid-leap, my bones breaking and reforming in the space between heartbeats. The change is faster than it's ever been, smoother, like my body has been waiting for this. My father's blood singing yes yes yes.
But I'm not doing this for him.
I'm doing this for Declan.
My wolf form hits the first attacker mid-air. We go down in a tangle of fur and teeth. The other wolf circles, looking for an opening. The woman shifts again, joining the fight.
Three against one. Bad odds.
Then Declan shoots the circling wolf in the haunch and suddenly it's three against two.
The fight is brutal. Fast. The woman is good—better than good—but she's not expecting me to fight smart instead of savage. I use the terrain, the rubble, the unstable roof itself as weapons.
When she lunges, I dodge left and let her momentum carry her toward the edge. She catches herself at the last second, claws scrabbling for purchase.
I don't give her a chance to recover.
One hit. That's all it takes. She goes over the edge with a scream that cuts off abruptly.
The other two wolves hesitate.
I shift back, standing naked and bloody on the roof. "Anyone else?"
They run.
I turn to Declan. He's sitting now, the gun loose in his hand. His eyes are unfocused.
"Declan."
"I am fine."
"You're not fine. You're—"
The footsteps from the stairwell get louder.
A hand appears on the roof access, pale and bloody. Then another. Then a head.
My father pulls himself onto the roof.
He's dead. I know he's dead. I shot him in the heart. But he's moving anyway, dragging himself forward with single-minded determination.
"Sloane," he rasps. "My daughter. My perfect—"
I don't let him finish.
I cross the roof in three strides and kick him in the face. His head snaps back. He goes still.
This time, I check for a pulse.
Nothing.
"He was already dead," Declan says quietly. "Someone was... controlling the body. Moving it like a puppet."
"Who?"
"I do not know. But we need to leave. Now."
He's right. The building is coming apart beneath us. We have maybe a minute before the whole thing collapses.
"There." Declan points to the next building over. Maybe fifteen feet away. "We can jump."
"You can barely stand."
"Then you will have to carry me."
"That's not funny."
"I am not joking."
I look at the gap. At Declan. At my father's body.
"Okay," I say. "Okay. We jump."
I help Declan to his feet. His weight sags against me but he's still conscious, still fighting.
"On three," I say.
"Sloane."
"Yeah?"
"If we do not make it—"
"We're making it."
"But if we do not—"
"Declan. Shut up and jump."
He smiles. Actually smiles. "Yes, ma'am."
"One."
The building shudders.
"Two."
My father's body twitches. His hand moves, reaching for something in his jacket.
"Three."
We run. The roof crumbles beneath our feet. Declan's hand is locked in mine and for a second we're flying, suspended between buildings, between life and death.
We hit the other roof hard. I roll, pulling Declan with me, away from the edge.
Behind us, my father's building collapses. The sound is deafening. Dust and debris fill the air.
When it clears, there's nothing left but rubble.
I lie on my back, staring at the sky. Declan is beside me, breathing hard.
"We made it," I say.
"We did."
"You're still bleeding."
"I am aware."
I turn my head to look at him. "What you said before. About loving me."
"Yes?"
"I—"
My phone rings.
I almost ignore it. Almost. But something makes me check the screen.
Unknown number.
I answer.
"Hello, Sloane." The voice is familiar. Smooth. Corporate. "This is Garrett Voss. I'm calling from the lobby of your apartment building. I have something that belongs to you."
My blood goes cold. "What are you talking about?"
"Or should I say someone?" He pauses. "She's very pretty. Red hair. Freckles. Says her name is Emma."
Emma. My roommate. The human who knows nothing about any of this.
"If you hurt her—"
"I'm not going to hurt her. You are." His smile is audible through the phone. "You have thirty minutes to get here. Come alone. If I see Declan Thorne, if I see anyone but you, she dies. Understand?"
The line goes dead.
I look at Declan. At the blood soaking through his jacket. At the man who just jumped across buildings for me.
"I have to go," I say.
"What happened?"
"Garrett has Emma."
"Then we go together."
"He said alone."
"Sloane—"
"You're dying, Declan. You need a hospital."
"And you need backup."
"I need you alive." I stand up. My legs are shaking but they hold. "Please. Just this once. Let me do this alone."
He tries to stand. His legs give out.
"Damn it," he whispers.
I kneel beside him. "I'll come back. I promise."
"That is not the whole truth."
He's right. I don't know if I'm coming back. Don't know if I can beat Garrett. Don't know anything except that Emma is in danger because of me.
"I love you," I say. The words come out easier than I expected. "I should have said it before. I'm saying it now. I love you."
His hand finds mine. "Then come back."
"I'll try."
I kiss him. Quick. Hard. Then I'm running, leaving him bleeding on the roof, racing toward a fight I might not survive.
My phone buzzes. A text from the unknown number.
A photo of Emma, bound and gagged, terror in her eyes.
And beneath it, a message: "Twenty-nine minutes."
I run faster.
The apartment building looks normal. Quiet. Like nothing is wrong.
I take the stairs two at a time. My apartment is on the sixth floor. The door is open.
Garrett sits on my couch, Emma beside him. His hand rests casually on her shoulder. She's crying, mascara running down her face.
"Right on time," Garrett says. "I appreciate punctuality."
"Let her go."
"In a moment. First, we talk."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"I disagree." He squeezes Emma's shoulder. She whimpers. "You see, your father and I had an arrangement. He was going to deliver you to me. Alive. Unbroken. Ready to be trained."
"Trained for what?"
"For war." His smile returns. "There's a conflict coming, Sloane. Between our kind and theirs. Between wolves and humans. Your father understood that. He was preparing you to lead."
"I'm not leading anything."
"No?" He tilts his head. "Then what are you going to do? Go back to your little life? Pretend tonight didn't happen? Pretend you didn't kill your own father?"
"He was a monster."
"He was a visionary." Garrett stands, pulling Emma up with him. "And you're his legacy. Whether you like it or not."
"Let her go."
"Answer one question first." He looks at me, really looks at me. "When you killed your father, did you feel anything? Grief? Regret? Or just relief?"
The question hits harder than I expect.
"I felt—" I stop. Because I don't know what I felt. Don't know what I feel now. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters more than you think." He pushes Emma toward me. She stumbles, falls. I catch her. "Take her. Go. Live your life."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." He walks toward the door. "But know this, Sloane Carrigan. Your father was right about one thing. War is coming. And when it does, you'll have to choose a side."
"I choose my own side."
"There is no third option." He pauses in the doorway. "I'll be seeing you."
Then he's gone.
I untie Emma. She's shaking, sobbing, clinging to me.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm so sorry."
"What's happening? Who was that? What did he mean about your father?"
"I'll explain everything. I promise. But right now I need you to pack a bag. You're going to stay with your sister for a while."
"Sloane—"
"Please, Emma. Trust me."
She looks at me. Really looks at me. At the blood on my clothes. The cuts on my face. The way I'm holding myself like I might break.
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay."
While she packs, I call 911. Report Declan's location. Tell them he's been shot, needs immediate medical attention. Hang up before they can ask questions.
Then I call Declan.
He answers on the first ring. "Sloane."
"I'm okay. Emma's okay. Garrett let us go."
"Why would he—"
"I don't know. But I called 911. They're coming for you."
"You should not have done that."
"Yeah, well. I did." I close my eyes. "I'll meet you at the hospital."
"Sloane—"
"I love you," I say again. Because I need him to hear it. Need him to know. "I'm coming back. I promise."
I end the call before he can respond.
Emma emerges with a duffel bag. "I'm ready."
"Good. Let's go."
We're halfway to the door when I hear it. A sound that makes my blood freeze.
Footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Dragging.
The same footsteps from the roof.
Emma hears it too. "What is that?"
"Get behind me."
The footsteps stop outside my door.
A knock. Three times. Deliberate.
"Sloane." My father's voice. Dead but speaking. "Let me in, sweetheart. We need to talk."
Emma screams.
The door explodes inward.
My father stands in the doorway, his body broken and wrong, moving like a marionette with tangled strings.
His mouth moves but the voice that comes out isn't his.
"Hello, daughter," it says. "Did you really think you could kill me?"
And behind him, in the hallway, I see them.
Dozens of them.
Wolves. All with the same dead eyes. All moving with the same puppet-string jerks.
All coming for me.