Marist Northcott was going to die halfway up the staircase on her quest to becoming a Hale, her beautiful green dress splayed out around her. I dug my fingers into the thick carpet, anchoring myself as best I could, and let the darkness have me.
“Marist!” a male voice shouted.
Hands scooped up my shoulders, forcing my eyes to crack open. Everything was blurry and indistinguishable, like I’d put on a pair of my sister’s glasses. I tried to speak, but it was a garbled mess in my head.
Then Royce came into view. I reached up, wanting to touch and make sure it was really him. “I love you,” I croaked.
My hand landed on the face, but it wasn’t his.
It was the Minotaur.