They left the mercenary bleeding out in the dark, but Jane carried the ghost of her father’s betrayal up every single concrete stair.
Her right calf throbbed with a blinding, white-hot rhythm. The silk tourniquet Michael had tied around it was completely saturated, heavy and black in the dim emergency lighting of the subterranean stairwell. Every step sent a jolt of nausea up her spine. She didn't slow down. She refused to limp.
Michael walked half a step behind her. He didn't offer to carry her. He knew better. The Sovereign understood exactly what she needed right now—agency. He hovered just close enough that if her knee buckled, she would hit his chest before she ever touched the floor.
He kicked open the heavy steel fire door at the top of the landing. The hinges screamed in protest
