Born, Madly (Darkly, Madly 2)

Then, Grayson’s comforting weight disappears. He releases a grunt as a booted foot makes contact with his ribs, then a sharp pain lances the back of my head. I’m yanked backward, my bare skin burning as I’m dragged along the cold steel.

“Get up,” Nelson seethes, pulling me to stand by my hair.

I lash out, nails aimed at his face, but he easily blocks my attack. He smashes the butt of the gun against my temple. Pain splinters my head, darkness blinks before my eyes. He draws me against his chest. Pushes the muzzle to my throbbing head.

My feet kick at the steel despite the pain it causes my injured flesh, seeking purchase as he drags me over the container. Nelson grips my shoulder, securing his forearm across my chest. Grayson watches the moment through a haze of pain and helplessness as the aconite ravishes his system.

Incensed, I regain my composure and latch on to Nelson’s arm, digging my nails into his skin. “Let me go—”

“Not happening,” he says near my ear. “You’re good at being a hostage, London. Don’t let me down now.”

As my vision clears, I glimpse Foster below. Leaned up against a support beam, he uses it as a shield. He’s holding his casted arm. Red seeps between his fingers. He’s been shot.

Grayson is dying. Foster is injured. How badly, I’m not sure—but he won’t be able to make a stand against Nelson. I’m a sacrificial lamb for Nelson’s escape. Fighting to live only long enough until I transition into a burden. Where he’ll dispose of me.

The moment is crystal, pristine. So clear, I can taste the acid infusing the air.

I catch Grayson’s gaze and stop struggling. The clarity I feel is reflected in his sheer blue eyes. He’s losing the battle, his awareness slipping away. Now.

When Foster steps from behind the beam, gun drawn and aimed, I act.

I go limp like a rag doll. Nelson growls his frustration as he tries to hoist me up. Foster takes his shot. The bullet wizzes past Nelson, just missing its mark. Nelson abandons the fight for a hostage and releases me. He takes aim at Foster.

Grayson is forgotten in the chaos.

He rises up now, the last of his strength concentrated into one final burst. Nelson notices too late. Grayson attacks Nelson, and the gun skitters across the container. I crawl toward it, but by the time I’ve closed my hand around the weapon, I’ve already lost too much time.

Grayson has Nelson locked in a vise-grip, his arm latched around his neck. “The knife,” Grayson says.

A moment—one clear moment—where our eyes meet, and I know what I have to do.

The knife is in my hand. I look for Foster. He’s ascending the side of the container, slowly. His broken arm a hindrance. Steps deliberate, I approach Grayson. His struggle with Nelson is diminishing him further. He can’t restrain him much longer.

I meet Nelson’s eyes and, with a smile, drive the blade into his sternum. He sputters a shocked, incomprehensible admonishment—something with a muttered bitch. I twist the blade deeper, up beneath his rib cage.

From my peripheral, I glimpse Foster’s hand reach over the top of the container.

Only seconds now.

As Nelson quickly becomes dead weight, Grayson nearly topples over. “I’m too weak…” He trails off.

“I’ll see you soon,” I tell Grayson.

“In hell, baby.” He winks.

I brace my bare feet against the metal and slam my hands into Grayson’s shoulder.

Grayson and Nelson go over the edge together. The momentum knocks me off balance, and I slip on the blood coating the container. “Grayson—”

It happens so quickly, in a blink.

I scramble toward the edge of the container and look over the side, my hands gripped to the metal l

ike it’s the only solid force holding me together.

I flash back to how fast the predator in the maze dissolved—how, within minutes, I could no longer distinguish his body parts. Flesh and bone liquefied.

Below me, the mixture of sulfuric acid churns violently. The fumes irritates my eyes. A thick film already bubbles over the top, blocking my view of the carnage happening within.