EMMA
The secondary bunker smelled of wet concrete, gun oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of Gabriel’s blood. My own pulse was a hammer against my ribs, each beat a literal sledgehammer blow to the foundations of the mountain. I leaned against the cold wall, closing my eyes, forcing my breath into a rhythmic, four-count box.
In. Two. Three. Four. Hold. Two. Three. Four.
If my heart rate didn't drop, the geothermal rams would tear the cliffside out from under us. I was a walking detonator, and Damien was the one holding the stopwatch.
"Emma," Gabriel rasped from the cot. He was trying to sit up, his muscles twitching with the urge to shift, but the nitrate gas had turned his internal fire into a suffocating sludge. "The alarm... who is at the door?"
"Bastien," I lied, though the "sensin
