Atticus exhales slowly, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders in a controlled release. “You used yourself as the anchor.”
“I was already the anchor,” I say quietly, “we just stopped pretending otherwise.”
For a moment neither of them speaks, the weight of that choice hanging heavy between us, but there is no accusation in Atticus’s eyes, only understanding and a flicker of grim respect that settles something tight in my chest.
“So now what,” Axel asks, his voice steady but cautious.
I glance back at Lucian. “Now we get answers.”
“He’s unconscious,” Atticus points out.
“For now,” I reply.
A sharp scream cuts through the air before either of them can respond.
High pitched.
Panicked.
The sound comes from further down the dungeon corridor, and my stomach sinks as recognition hits
