DAMON'S POV
The noise hit me the second I pushed open the heavy wooden door leading out of the cellars.
Shouting echoed down the main hall. Guards were running back and forth, carrying crates of rifles and spare magazines from the armory. Two pack medics were rushing down the stone corridor with a stretcher, leaving a thin trail of dark red spots on the floor.
I looked toward the stretcher as it passed.
The messenger we had sent to Marcus Sterling lay on his back, his face gray and drenched in cold sweat. Both of his forearms were wrapped in thick white gauze, soaked completely red through the cloth. His hands were gone. A torn piece of Sterling pack fabric had been pinned to his chest with an iron nail.
Marcus hadn't just said no. He had made sure everyone who looked at the man under
