The rooftop door clangs behind us, and the metallic echo slices through the dark like a guillotine. I collapse against the concrete wall of the stairwell, breath shaking, thigh burning, heart thundering like it wants out of my chest.
But the world outside doesn't stop.
The sirens scream louder.
The spotlights sweep across the sky like hungry wolves.
And every gun out there is pointed at him.
Not me.
Not anymore.
Killian stands in front of me, chest heaving as he tries to slow his breathing. He's soaked in rain, blood on his sleeve—some of it mine, some of it not. His jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscle twitching under the skin.
He stares at me like I'm something between a bomb and a miracle.
"Why didn't you drop the gun?" he asks quietly.
His voice is low, rough, dangerous.
But underneath—there's something else.
Fear.
For me.
And that's the problem.
"I wasn't going to shoot them," I manage, swallowing the ache in my throat. "I wasn't going to shoot you."
