REUNITED IN BLOOD

​POV: Malia

​My body didn't feel like mine anymore. It felt like a machine running on fumes and sheer, desperate will. The heavy weight of the steel revolver in my hands was the only thing keeping me anchored to the floor. My wrists throbbed with a burning, white-hot agony where the iron cuffs had ground into the skin, but I couldn't bring myself to let go of the frame.

​I had shot him. I had actually pulled the trigger.

​The sound was still ringing in my ears, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the steady dripping of water somewhere in the darkness. But then the heavy cell door had exploded inward, iron hinges shearing off in a blinding burst of fire and smoke, and Jarrah had walked through the haze.

​Seeing him there, his tall frame blocking out the dark hallway, his face dark with fury and terrified worry, felt like opening my eyes after months of drowning. The air rushed back into my lungs all at once.

​"Jarrah..."

​I wanted to throw myself into him. I wanted to bury my face in the crook of his neck and let the horror of the last three days wash away. But I couldn't move. My legs felt locked in ice, trembling violently beneath me.

​"I'm here," he said. His voice wasn't the cold, calculated tone he used when dealing with the world outside. It was raw, cracked, and thick with an emotion so deep it felt dangerous. "I'm right here, Malia."

​He lowered his shotgun, taking one slow, deliberate step toward me. The distance between us felt like a chasm, yet the space was heavy with a fierce, magnetic pull. I could feel his gaze on my skin, warm and protective, tracing every scratch, every stain of blood on my face and arms.

​Then, the sickening sound of wet coughing broke the air.

​"You think... you've won?"

​My eyes snapped down. Alastair was lying in his own blood, his expensive jacket ruined, his face pale and twisted into something inhuman. But he wasn't looking at me. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, staring down at the concrete floor near the baseboard.

​My heart dropped into my stomach.

​Mounted to the stone wall, half-hidden behind a rusted conduit, was a metallic junction box. A heavy cover had been flipped open, revealing a bright crimson toggle switch underneath. Alastair’s right hand, drenched in red, was reaching for it. His fingers were shaking, inches away from the iron safety guard.

​"Jarrah! The wall!" I screamed, the sound tearing through my raw throat.

​Everything happened in a fraction of a second.

​Alastair’s fingers hooked onto the crimson switch.

​Jarrah didn't hesitate. He dropped the heavy shotgun, leaving it to clatter against the floor, and lunged across the narrow room. His movement wasn't just fast; it was terrifyingly desperate, a blur of motion driven by absolute refusal to lose me.

​Before Alastair’s hand could apply pressure to the toggle, Jarrah cleared his side holster in a smooth, brutal arc.

​CRACK.

​A single pistol shot shattered the narrow space.

​Alastair shrieked a high, wet wail of agony as the heavy bullet punched straight through the meat of his right hand, pinning his palm to the floor inches short of the box. Blood sprayed across the concrete, splattering against the rusted metal conduit.

​In the same split-second momentum, Jarrah’s body collided with mine.

​He didn't just catch me; he gathered me into his arms like I was the only solid thing left in a crumbling world. His large, muscular frame hit me, wrapping around my trembling body with a force that knocked the remaining breath from my lungs. He brought us both crashing down to the hard concrete floor, rolling so that his back took the brunt of the impact, completely encasing me beneath him.

​My head hit his chest. The smell of gunsmoke, rain, leather, and his distinct, comforting scent flooded my senses, overwhelming the foul metallic odor of the dungeon.

​"I've got you," he growled into my hair, his arms locking around my waist and upper back like steel bands. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling violently against mine. "I've got you, Malia. Don't look at him. Look at me."

​I pressed my face into the crook of his neck, my fingers locking instinctively into the coarse fabric of his tactical vest. My hands were bloody, the iron cuffs clanking loudly against his chest armor, but he didn't care. He tightened his grip, pressing his lips hard against the crown of my head, breathing me in as if he were starving.

​"Jarrah..." I sobbed, the tears finally bursting through the dam of my restraint. "He was going to..."

​"He's done," Jarrah whispered fiercely, his cheek pressed hard against mine. His skin was burning hot, a stark contrast to the icy cold that had filled my veins for days. "It's over. I'm not letting anything happen to you."

​For a heartbeat, buried in his arms, the world narrowed down to just the sound of his ragged breathing and the solid, unyielding beat of his heart beneath my palm. The distance, the pain, the terror it all melted into a deep, desperate warmth that made my chest ache.

​Then, beneath us, the floor began to hum.

​A low, subterranean rumble vibrated up through the concrete slab, shaking the teeth in my jaw. High above us, deep within the walls of the mansion, a series of heavy, muffled thuds echoed down through the stone like distant thunder.

​Alastair, pinned to the floor by his ruined hand, began to laugh a wet, hysterical gurgle.

​"You... you spared my hand..." he wheezed, blood spilling down his chin. "But you didn't... check the timer... switch. The circuit... was already set..."

​Jarrah’s head snapped up, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped beneath his skin.