EMMA
The battering ram hit the door again, a bone-jarring thud that sent flakes of rust dancing through the red light of the bunker. The iron groaned, the frame beginning to buckle under the sheer force of the Metropolitan Police—or whoever Damien had bought to wear their uniforms.
"Gabriel," I breathed, the word caught in a throat tight with terror. "The video. He’s recording this. If you fight back, if you... if you change... he wins."
Gabriel stood in the center of the room, his shoulders broad enough to swallow the light. He looked at the door, then back at the tiny, glowing screen of my phone. Damien’s green text was still there, mocking us.
"I know," Gabriel rasped. The gold in his eyes was receding, replaced by a cold, tactical flint. He wasn't the beast right now; he was the Ge
