"...MAILAH?", Grayson whispers weakly.
The moment the name left his lips, the world narrowed down to the space between them. The cacophony of the warehouse—the hissing guards, the low hum of the machinery, the crackling energy of Lucson's power—faded into a dull roar.
Seryn, leaning back against her throne of rebar, didn't move. She watched with a terrifying, amused curiosity, her chin resting on a pale hand. She didn't stop Mailah. She wanted this. She wanted to see the tragedy unfold.
Mailah didn't wait for permission. She broke into a run, her boots splashing through the black, oily liquid on the floor.
"Mailah, no!" Lucson's voice was a whip-crack of authority, but she ignored it. Even Carson's desperate reach for her arm missed by a fraction of an inch.
