Shattered Asylum

Chapter 96

Grayson's POV

The stink of blood and damp concrete hits me the second I step through the door. It clings to the back of my throat, mixing with the metallic tang of gunpowder from the shots my men fired clearing the hallway.

The room is chaos. Guns drawn. Boots pounding. Shouts overlapping until they blur into one low roar. My team moves like a black tide, swift, efficient, unrelenting, closing in on the man at the center of it all.

Joe.

He's surrounded, but he still tries to snarl, to puff up like he's dangerous. Pathetic. He's not dangerous. Not to me.

I keep walking. Slow, deliberate. Every step measured. Not because I'm calm, but because the urge to rip him apart with my bare hands is so strong I need the control to keep from doing it right now.

He locks eyes with me. There's defiance there, but underneath... a shift. A tightening around his mouth. A flicker in his gaze.

I stop just a few feet away, my voice pitched low, lethal, meant for him alone. "You've been breathing on borrowed time, Joe. And I'm here to collect."

For a heartbeat, the mask cracks. He doesn't drop his sneer, but I see it, the second he understands that no matter what happens in this room, he's already dead.

"Big talk," he spits, but there's no weight to it. His voice has that thin edge of someone bluffing their last hand.

I tilt my head toward my men. "Take him."

Two of my largest step forward. They don't just grab him, they slam into him like a wall, twisting his arms until the joints strain. His boots scrape uselessly against the floor as they lift him completely off the ground. He's still cursing, spitting, fighting, but none of it matters. He's not my priority anymore.

Because I see her.

Aven.

She's in the far corner, slumped against a filthy cot, so still I almost don't recognize her. At first, my brain refuses to make sense of the image, because the girl in my head isn't like this. She's alive. Vibrant. Sharp eyed.

This... this looks like the shell of someone I used to know.

Her skin is ghost pale, stretched too tight over her cheekbones. Her lips are cracked, dried blood at the corner of her mouth. Her dress... what's left of it... is ripped, exposing too much.

My stomach twists hard, and for a moment, I can't move. Every instinct in me screams to run to her, but a part of me is terrified. Terrified that if I touch her, she'll vanish like smoke.

Joe turns his head just enough to watch me see her. There's something in his smile then, a sick, proud satisfaction. It's the last look he'll ever give me before I end him.

I force my legs to move, shoving past anyone in my way. My knees hit the concrete beside her, the jolt barely registering.

"Baby."

I reach for her face, my hands shaking, Fuck, I never shake. My thumb brushes over her cheek, wiping at the grime, the crusted blood. Her skin is ice under my touch. Too cold.

Her head lolls toward me, but her eyes... nothing. No flicker. No focus.

No.

My chest tightens until it's hard to breathe. I press my forehead to hers, closing my eyes like maybe I can will my warmth into her. "I'm here," I whisper, my voice breaking in a way I can't stop. "You hear me? You're safe now."

Nothing.

Behind me, the noise in the room keeps going, orders barked, boots shuffling, the scuffle of my men dragging Joe down the hall, but it all fades into a dull, distant hum. Right now, there's only her.

I push her tangled hair back from her face with a trembling hand. My other arm slips under her, pulling her against me. She's too light. Weightless, almost. As if half of her is already gone.

Her head falls against my shoulder, limp. My gut twists so hard I think I might be sick.

"Don't you leave me," I murmur, my lips brushing her temple. "Don't you dare."

I kiss her forehead, lingering there longer than I should. She doesn't stir. Doesn't even flinch.

The thought hits me like a blade to the chest... maybe I was too late.

I can't think it. Won't. But the image is there anyway, this moment without her breathing. The cold settling in. The silence.

I pull her in tighter, one hand cupping the back of her head like I can shield her from everything that's already happened. My throat burns, but I swallow it down. This isn't the place for falling apart.

Still... for the first time in years, I feel that old, suffocating helplessness clawing at me. The same feeling I swore I'd never let happen again.

"Baby," I say again, softer this time. A plea.

There's no answer.

No flutter of breath against my neck.

Just the weight of her in my arms, and the crushing thought that I might be holding her for the last time.

And then a medic's voice cuts through, urgent and sharp, calling for a stretcher. My men move to clear space. The medic is saying something to me, but I don't hear the words.

Movement catches at the edge of my vision, the medic, crouching beside me, hands hovering. "Sir, I need to-"

"No." The word is a growl, low and sharp.

He glances at one of the men, as if asking permission to override me.

"Sir, we have to move her if we're going to-"

"Not yet." My voice cracks on the last word. I press my forehead to hers. "She's still here. She's still here."

The medic hesitates.

I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing her in, under the blood, under the dirt, there's still that faint trace of her. I memorize the weight of her, the shape of her tucked against me. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready.

But finally, my arms loosen. My fingers trace from her back, to her shoulder, down her arm, until all I have left is the ghost of her touch at my fingertips. And then she's gone, lifted out of my hold, placed onto the stretcher.

The space where she was feels like a wound I can't see.

I watch them take her, but everything starts to blur, whether it's the chaos in the room or the burn in my eyes, I don't know. All I know is the warmth is gone.

And for the first time in years, I feel cold.

Word count: 1103