The syringe feels colder than the blood on my fingers.
I hold it in my palm and watch the blue liquid react to the flashing lights. Dad looks at the movement. He is not scared. He is proud.
“Always was her daughter,” he chokes out, grinning around bloody teeth.
The fresh bite mark on my shoulder burns like hell. Through the bond, Kieran’s pain slams into me—sharp, silver-laced, desperate. His silent “don’t” pulses against my ribs like a second heartbeat.
I don’t care.
I jam the needle into his throat.
He gasps as the serum rushes through him, the blue turning black under his skin like spilled ink. His pupils widen until they swallow the brown eyes I used to trust.
He staggers, clawing at his neck, then drops hard. The sound of his knees hitting metal rings through the wrecked train
