Page 95 of Firethorne
Chapter Forty-Two
Maya
Icowered on the cold concrete, covering my head with my hands as the sound of the gunshots rang in my ears. I didn’t want to open my eyes and see what’d happened. It was a reality I wasn’t ready to face.
Had they shot Damien?
Were they about to shoot me?
I whimpered, scared out of my wits as I forced myself to open my eyes. And there, lying before me on the ground in pools of their own blood were the two men who’d tortured Damien.
Damien was still chained up, still breathing, but his eyes weren’t on me. He was looking at the doorway.
“I couldn’t leave you here to die,” a voice said from behind, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Lysander, standing there with a gun in his hand. “I’ve taken care of Beresford. And I’ll do the same to anyone else I find on my way out, but I meant what I said earlier. You need to get out.”
I swallowed through the razor blades embedded in my throat, trying to calm my racing heart as I blinked through my tears.
He took a moment, then nodded and turned around, leaving without uttering another word.
I was in shock.
I couldn’t believe he’d come back to save us.
But fear soon eclipsed everything, and I sprang from the floor, running over to Damien.
I took his face in my hands as I asked frantically, “How do I get you out of these?” I reached up to grab the cuffs that he was enslaved in. “Where’s the key?”
“His pocket,” Damien rasped, coughing through the dryness in his throat. “The key is in his pocket.”
He nodded to the dead guy to the left of him, and even though touching either of these men was the last thing I wanted to do, I stalked over to his body, knelt beside him, and pushed my hand into his pocket.
“He hasn’t got it,” I cried, after checking both pockets.
“Then that one’ll have it,” Damien said breathlessly, with urgency, and I scrambled over to the other guy, shoving my hands into his jeans in desperation.
And there, I found a key.
I jumped up, racing over to Damien, and I pushed the key into the lock. The cuffs clanked open, and Damien fell into my arms, relief at being free over-powering him in a rare moment of weakness. But he soon righted himself, strength flooding through him as he wrapped his arms around me and said, “I’m so sorry, Maya. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I’m fine,” I told him, but he clenched his jaw and shook his head.
“I can see the blood and bruises on your face. You’re not fine.”
“I will be,” I urged. “Once we get out of here. Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” he said, standing taller, but giving a quiet moan as the sting and ache of his wounds hit. But he was strong, and he knew what he had to do to survive, just like I did.
Damien took the knife out of my hand and put his arm around my shoulders as I wrapped mine tentatively around his waist. With fierce determination, we walked out of that cellar and headed towards the staircase that led back up to the house.
“Is he dead?” Damien asked, and I faltered.
“I stabbed him in the chest. Twice.” I left out the other part. It wasn’t something I wanted to admit out loud.
“But is he dead?” Damien repeated, urgency clear in his voice.
“I think so. He looked dead.”
Damien’s head fell back as he let out a frustrated breath.
